


Magic Needle

by SushiOwl



Series: Pigments and Pentacles [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, I didn't set out to make this a fluffy fluff fluffers time, It just happened, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Masturbation, Piercings, Porn in Later Chapters, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Peter Hale, Tattoos, Without Condoms, not that I meant it to be, so much fluff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiOwl/pseuds/SushiOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One--” He stabbed the needle right through skin and cartilage, pulling a loud squawk out of Stiles.</p><p>Stiles sucked in a few quick breaths then started to laugh. “You son of a bitch,” he snorted. “You said on three.”</p><p>“I lied,” Peter replied, smiling down at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Магическая игла](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197834) by [Ms_Whiskas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Whiskas/pseuds/Ms_Whiskas)



> So this idea came out of nowhere. I was chin deep in a different story when this came to me and wouldn't let go of my brain. The whole thing is plotted out in a detailed outline, so I'll probably update quickly. (But don't quote me on that.)
> 
> Magic Needle is the name of a tattoo parlor near where I live, and I'm not creative. xD
> 
> Beat read by the glorious [WhatTheHale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthehale).

Peter was going through the inventory in the parlor's downtime, counting the needles he had in stock. He hummed in consideration as he found he was short on 14g needles. He'd get some with his next order from the distributor. He looked up from his clipboard when he heard the sound of the front door bell jingling. He set down the clipboard and headed to the front to greet the walk in. 

The guy he found was young, if his jeans with their torn hems and beat up red Converse high tops were anything to go by. He was looking at the flash on the wall, his back to Peter as he turned the large pages to look through the display tattoo designs. Peter sat down at the hollow glass counter filled with piercings and watched him a moment.

"See anything you like?" Peter asked, smiling as the guy jumped, his shoulders going up around his ears.

The guy let out a laugh and turned, but the smile fell off his face the moment he saw Peter. He backed up into the displays in what looked like terror. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Peter was just as surprised, but he didn't let it show. He straightened and put on his most empty smile. "It's my shop," he replied, voice as sweet and sticky as honey. " _Stiles._ "

"You remember me?" Stiles asked, low and firm like he wasn't scared, but Peter could hear his rabbit fast thumping heart.

"How could I possibly forget?" Peter replied with a tilt of his head.

It may have been a long time since he'd seen Stiles or any of the rest of the teenagers involved with his nephew, but he would never forget the way he'd confronted him over Lydia's prone body. Or the sound of Stiles’s heart when he'd offered the kid the Bite. Stiles had always been the interesting one. Of course, then he'd set Peter on fire. Well, helped.

Peter hadn't stuck around very long after he had died and been resurrected. After Jackson had turned into a werelizard, he'd decided that he was done with Beacon Hills and the weird shit that happened there. He'd already had his revenge, and Derek didn't want him around anyway, so he moved south, landing in Palo Alto near his alma mater. There he opened up a tattoo parlor and got back to his passion. Other than sarcasm and manipulation, of course. Eventually the bone-deep longing for pack faded into a dull, manageable ache.

Stiles was just staring blankly at him, his mouth hanging open, so Peter cleared his throat. “Do you want a tattoo or not?” 

“I do,” Stiles said slowly, before he narrowed his eyes. “But I don’t know if I want one from you.”

It stung even though Peter knew he shouldn’t give a damn about a child’s opinion of him. He kept a blank face and pretended that he couldn’t be bothered to work up in sort of indignation. Instead of responding right away, he turned and picked up a thick binder, plopping it down on the counter. “This is what I’ve been doing since I left Beacon Hills.” 

Still looking deeply suspicious, Stiles stepped away from the displays and toward the counter. He slowly flipped the top of the binder open and looked down at the first tattoo. His eyebrows shot up, and Peter savored his pleasant surprise. “Holy shit,” Stiles said as he turned page after page. The tattoos changed as Stiles went deeper, the outlines fading away and the forms becoming ornate splashes of color with black brush strokes, both thin and wide, to give them shape. “They look like watercolor paintings,” he breathed out, running his fingers over the plastic covered page.

“What kind of tattoo do you want?” Peter asked, staring at Stiles’s long, thin fingers. When Stiles dropped his hands off the counter, Peter looked at his face.

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, blinking huge brown eyes.

Peter gave him a bland look. “Are you shitting me?”

Stiles had the good grace to look sheepish. “I just knew I really wanted a tattoo. I thought that if I came here I could pick out something that struck a chord with me.” He glanced over his shoulder at the displays.

Somehow Peter managed not to roll his eyes to high heaven. “I’m not going to tell you that your first tattoo should be meaningful. Plenty of people get something they just think is pretty and are perfectly happy. But you need to have some idea before you walk into a shop.” He closed the binder and put it back behind the counter. “Now get out of here and do some research.” He dismissed Stiles with his hand. “Stop wasting my time.”

Stiles snorted, his lips pulling up at the side. “You know, for someone who has 100% positive reviews on Yelp, you’re kind of an asshole to customers,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Excuse you, I have excellent bedside manner,” Peter shot back, and Stiles just waved over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

* * *

The next day when Stiles came into the shop, Peter was busy explaining to a little girl and her mother exactly what the process of piercing ears was about. He looked over at Stiles, noting the folder in his hands, and waved him over to the couch to wait, before he looked back to the excited little girl. 

She was an excellent client. She just sat there and gnawed at the sucker Peter had given her, not even reacting as he stuck needles through the marked spots on her earlobes. He fixed the stainless steel studs in place and sat back to check his work, before he smiled. “All done,” he said, and the little girl beamed at him. He grabbed a mirror and held it up so she could see, and her smile only got wider.

“Cool!” the little girl said, hopping down from the chair and bouncing over to her mother to show off her new accessories. 

Peter grabbed a piercing care sheet and handed it to the mother, before he looked down at the little girl. “Make sure to turn your piercings twice a day, but wash your hands first, okay?” The girl nodded, and Peter smiled at her before looking to her mother. “Wait about eight weeks for the piercings to heal before changing out the jewelry. After that she’s good to go.”

“Thank you,” the mother said, her smile kind. “How much do I owe you?”

After paying, the mother took her daughter’s hand and led her out, and the little girl waved with a bright smile. Peter waved back until she was gone. Then he looked over at Stiles and found him staring, eyes a little wide and mouth parted.

“What?” Peter asked, before he sat down at the counter and held out his hand.

Stiles jerked forward and handed over the folder. “I’ve never seen you be nice before,” he said, shoving his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “I was terrified you were going to eat her.”

“I wouldn’t have a business if I ate my customers, now would I?” Peter replied as he opened the folder. “Besides, I only eat infants.” He flashed a sharp smile, earning a distrustful squint, before he looked down at what Stiles had brought.

What he found were pages and pages of fox tattoos, pictures of other people’s work. There was no uniformity to the print outs either. The foxes were all different colors, brown, orange, silver and black, and even fantastical colors like blue, purple and green. There was a rainbow one. They weren’t even on the same body parts. There were on forearms, shoulders, chests, ribs, thighs, and there was even a tramp stamp.

Peter tried not to sigh too deep, lifting his eyes to Stiles, who was watching him. “Alright, so which one’s your favorite?” 

Stiles turned his eyes down to the print outs, before he started to dig through them, looking at each one. He seemed to be considering them hard, his brows furrowing and relaxing rhythmically. Then he just dropped the pictures back onto the counter and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding defeated.

Peter wanted to cover his own face and pray for serenity, but instead he just glared. “You are testing my patience,” he told him in a low voice.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, muffled by his hands. “I spent all night looking at fox tattoos, and I like them all, but I just don’t think I can put one of them on my body! I know I want _something_ , I just…” He made a whining sound and gestured at the print outs helplessly.

Peter should have found him irritating, but he was like a puppy that ran into walls when it ran too fast. He was charming in a pathetic way. He started to straighten the pictures and put them back into the folder. “Do you at least know _where_ you want it?”

“I was thinking above my hip?” Stiles said, lifting his shirt and drawing a line in an arc across his skin with his finger just above his hipbone.

What a furry happy trail. 

"How about I draw something original for you?" he suggested, pretending like it would be a chore instead of a delight. There was nothing he liked more than seeing his own mark on someone's body, so much more permanent than a bruise or a bite.

"You'd do that?" Stiles asked, eyes going huge again.

"Not for free," he replied, unable to stop the roll of his eyes.

"Oh, right, yeah. Of course," Stiles said, rubbing the back of his neck before carding his fingers through his hair.

"Come back Friday. It'll be ready by then," Peter told him, wanting him out before he started throwing shit at him or pulling him into a hug. It was a weird set of conflicting urges.

"Okay," Stiles said with a bobbing nod, before he gave a little waggling finger wave and left.

* * *

Peter spent the rest of that Wednesday sketching fox after fox until he found a design he liked. On Thursday, he was inking the drawing when Stiles came back into the parlor. Peter sat up and slid the drawing off the counter, not ready for Stiles to see it just yet.

"I think your awareness of the passing of time is a little off," he said as he capped his pen, giving Stiles a look.

"I'm not here for that. I want to get a piercing." Stiles had his hands in his hoodie pocket again and was trying to keep his gaze on Peter's face though his heart was racing. "I figured I could sample some body modification pain before I take the plunge, you know?"

"Do you actually know what piercing you want, or are you going to waffle about that too?" Peter asked with a lifted brow.

Stiles wasn't offended. He let out a little laugh and shook his head. "I want an industrial. I did plenty of research about it last night."

"So you know it's one of the most painful piercings you can get?" Peter asked as he grabbed a consent form and placed it on the counter. At Stiles’s excited nod, he handed him a pen. "Initial these and fill this out. Do you have your ID on you?" As Stiles was digging it out of his wallet, he went on to ask, "How old are you these days?"

"Nineteen," Stiles replied as he handed the ID over.

Peter looked at it. The address was still in Beacon Hills. "Are you in college?" He stood up.

"Yeah," Stiles replied as he was looking over the form. "Stanford. Full ride. Psychology and child development." He started to mark the appropriate spots with his initials.

While he did that, Peter went into the back and made a photocopy of Stiles’s ID, unable to keep from wondering what the rest of the brats in Derek’s pack have gotten up to since he left Beacon Hills. They were all grown up now, probably moved away from the town themselves. Was Derek all alone? Peter couldn’t decide if he cared or not. He grabbed the ID and copy, heading back up to the front.

Stiles had the form ready for him when he got there, and he gave it a cursory look over before he put it and the copy in the cabinet he had behind the counter. “Right this way,” he said, beckoning Stiles around the counter with a curling finger. He patted the table, and Stiles hopped up onto its padded surface, swinging his legs anxiously. “Lie down and tell me about your course load.”

“Oh, it’s certainly something,” Stiles said as he laid down and wiggled a bit to find a comfortable position. Peter went to wash his hands at the small sink a few feet away. “I decided to take all morning classes because I’m out of my mind. I have PSYC 109 at eight in the morning, and it’s a good thing that the biological basis of behavior is so interesting and that my professor is an absolute riot, because I’m always half asleep in my pajamas with a big ass cup of coffee.”

Peter pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “What are you planning on doing with your degree?” he asked as he pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves and picked up an alcohol wipe. 

“I want to work with children that have learning disabilities,” Stiles said as Peter started to wipe down his ear, over and under the shell and up into the crevices. “I know what it’s like when your brain is doing everything else but what you want it to.”

“Understandable,” Peter said, imagining a spastic Stiles with a bunch of spastic children and managing not to shudder in horror. He marked Stiles ear, before he broke the seal on a new 14g needle and turned back to Stiles, finding thinly veiled horror on his face. Peter snorted. “I guess all your obsessive research didn’t prepare you for this?”

“That’s a huge needle,” Stiles said, eyes widening.

“It’s really not,” Peter said, stepping up to the table. “Lie flat and turn your head away.”

“I’m going to pass out, oh my God,” Stiles whimpered, closing his eyes tight.

“No, you’re not,” Peter told him, taking hold of his ear with his left hand. “Breathe. We’ll do this on three.” He waited until Stiles stopped holding his breath before he started to count, poising the needle in the right spot. “One--” He stabbed the needle right through skin and cartilage, pulling a loud squawk out of Stiles.

Stiles sucked in a few quick breaths then started to laugh. “You son of a bitch,” he snorted. “You said on three.”

“I lied,” Peter replied, smiling down at him.

“That wasn’t as bad as I expected though,” Stiles said with a sigh, trying to watch Peter’s movements out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t tensing up though.

“Just wait until you see how much you’re bleeding,” Peter purred, taking a bit of pleasure in the way Stiles’s eyes widened and he tried to see his own ear for a second before realizing his attempt was futile. “I’m not going to trick you this time. Breathe in deep, now long exhale.” He pushed the needle to make the second hole as Stiles was letting out a long breath through his mouth, and Stiles didn’t even wince this time.

“You’re almost done,” Peter said, picking up the industrial bar. He pulled the needle through the holes and followed it with the jewelry. He screwed the ball on the open end, and they were done. He dropped the needle in the biohazard bag and grabbed a couple paper towels. He mopped up the blood in and around Stiles’s ear as best he could, trying not to bump the jewelry.

“It’s going to bleed for a while,” Peter explained as he gestured for Stiles to sit up. He pulled off his gloves and dropped them in the bag with the needle. He grabbed the hand mirror and held it up so Stiles could see.

“Sweet,” Stiles said in an awed voice, lifting his hand.

“Try not to touch it unless you’ve washed your hands,” Peter told him. He had said that so much it was almost robotic. Stiles promptly dropped his hand. Peter set the mirror down and led him to the front, parroting more care advice and handing Stiles a sheet with everything on it. “Buy two bottles of Dial Gold--only Gold, not any of the others, because they have scents and dyes that will do more harm than good--and wash your piercing twice a day, even if you’re not showering.”

“‘Kay,” Stiles said, standing on the other side of the counter and staring at the care sheet.

“Take this,” Peter went on, opening the sliding door of the counter and grabbing a can of H2Ocean for him. “After every wash, spray this generously and just let it dry naturally.”

“‘Kay,” Stiles said again, before he took a step backward and looked up at Peter. “Well, thanks. I guess I’ll see you Friday?” He took another step back.

“Sure,” Peter said, before he narrowed his eyes. “After you give me fifty dollars.” 

Stiles’s eyes popped, before he smacked a hand over his forehead. “Duh, sorry. I wasn’t trying to run out on you. I just had a stupid moment.” He dug out his wallet.

Peter could have said so many things about would-be moments, but he refrained. He accepted the money when it was held out to him. A ten dollar tip, how nice. 

“See you Friday, Stiles,” he said, offering Stiles a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, but almost.

“Sure, see you,” Stiles replied with an actual bright smile, before he walked out.

* * *

Six days out of the week, Peter opened the shop at four in the afternoon and shut it down at two in the morning. On Mondays it was closed, and that was his sleep day. Usually he got there at 3:30pm to peruse any mail and check the shop’s email. The parlor was two blocks from his apartment: a short, convenient walk.

When was nearly at the shop on Friday afternoon, Peter noticed someone sitting in front of the door. When he got closer, he recognized Stiles and was not surprised. He had a book in his lap and iPod earbuds jammed firmly in his ears. Peter came to a stop next to him, expecting him to notice and look up. When he didn’t, Peter gave his thigh a nudge with his foot.

Stiles jerked like he’d been electrocuted, looking up and pulling the buds out of his ears. “Oh, hey, didn’t see you there. I was studying.”

“Good for you,” Peter drawled, before he made a shooing motion with his hand. “Move so I can get through.”

Stiles pulled all his things to his chest and hustled up and out of the way. Peter pulled his keys out of his pocket and opened the door, walking inside with Stiles on his heels. There were three envelopes on the floor that he grabbed on his way in, dumping them on the counter. He went around and started turning on lights, leaving Stiles at the front looking out of place as he stuffed his things back in his bag.

Peter had the urge to just sit at the counter and look at his mail, as leisurely as he wanted, but Stiles was gazing at him with those big doe eyes. He didn’t think he could ignore him with that kind of Bambi stare. He sighed and just set the mail behind the counter, figuring he could deal with it later. He grabbed the folder with Stiles’s tattoo design in and set it on the counter. 

All but leaping forward, Stiles nearly smacked into the counter in his hurry to open up the folder and reveal the design inside. Immediately his eyes blew wide and a smile split his face. The fox’s thin body was curved, black-tipped feet extended in front of its angular head. Its long tail stretched up over its body. It was outlined in thick and thin, paint brush like strokes of black, and colored in vibrant reds and oranges. “Holy shit,” he breathed as he trailed his finger along the length of the fox’s body.

“Like it?” Peter asked casually, as if he hadn’t been anxious each moment since he’d finished the drawing to show it to Stiles, to bask in his praise. He was a bit easy like that.

“I love it,” Stiles replied, still staring at the picture in reverie. “It’s--it’s fucking amazing, is what it is.”

Peter cleared his throat as his ego swelled, before he touched the design. “The body goes over your hip, and the tail goes partway up your side.” He trailed his finger up the paper.

Stiles nodded emphatically, the grin never leaving his face. “When can we do it?” he asked, bouncing up and down on his toes.

Leaning back, Peter hummed and looked at his phone for the time. “Well, the shop isn’t technically open for another twenty minutes,” he said, sounding put out.

“Aw, c’mon!” Stiles whined, continuing to bounce like he couldn’t contain his excitement. Just like a puppy.

Peter stared at him for another thirty seconds, waiting until he settled before his heaved a sigh and turned on the stool. “Fine,” he said, grabbing the design and heading into the back of the shop with Stiles at his heels. It was a good thing he already made a stencil, because he was pretty sure Stiles would vibrate out of his clothes if he was made to wait.

“Take off your shirt,” Peter instructed as he picked up the thin paper with its wet outline of the design. He watched Stiles rip off his shirt with a flourish, eager, and snorted. He carefully positioned the stencil over Stiles’s skin until he got it in a good position, before he gingerly pressed the wet ink against him. He peeled the filmy paper away and smiled. “Go take a look.” He pointed to the full length mirror against the wall.

Stiles skipped over to it and slid to a halt, his sneaker squeaking. He bit his lip as he looked at the design on his skin, lifting his arm over his head to stretch out his ribs. “It’s great,” he said finally, shooting Peter a wide grin. 

“Good. Get on the table,” Peter directed as he went to wash his hands. 

Stiles hopped up onto the table and laid out, his feet wiggling in anticipation. Peter was struck with a discomforting thought. In a few short days, he had gone from low grade irritation in Stiles’s presence to finding him kind of adorable. He sighed softly at himself as he rinsed the soap off his hands.

“How’s your piercing?” Peter asked as he moved over to his table and put on a pair of gloves. He started filling the little plastic ink cups with black and all shades of yellow, orange and red.

“It’s fine. I had to train myself not to roll onto it. I only managed it after the 50th time,” Stiles replied, watching him. 

“It should stop hurting in a week or so,” Peter told him, before he reached back with his foot, snagging the footrest of his stool and pulling it closer so he could sit. He went through the process of putting plastic of the cords of his tattoo gun and pulled the foot pedal closer. He attached the lining needle and flicked it on, before pressing the pedal.

Stiles jerked in surprise at the first buzz, before he settled with a nervous laugh. “That’s a lot louder than I thought it would be.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Peter said as he dipped the needle in the black ink and gathered it in the reservoir. He set his hand on Stiles’s hip, watching him suck in his stomach. “Breathe, Stiles. It’s not going to be nearly as bad as you think.” He looked up at Stiles’s face and found his eyes clenched shut, his lips parted with harsh breaths.

“I’m going to start here,” he informed him, touching part of the tail. There wasn’t really any comfort he could offer Stiles to ease his worries. It was best to just show him. “Breathe,” he said again, lifting the gun. He pressed the needle into his skin, making a small line, then pulled it back, looking up at Stiles’s face. “How’d that feel?”

Stiles was blinking, staring up at the ceiling. “Huh,” he finally said, flicking his eyes down to Peter’s face. “That wasn’t that bad. It was like a cat scratch.” He sounded astounded.

“I told you,” Peter said with a snort. 

Smiling, Stiles closed his eyes again, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “You know, Scott wanted to get a tattoo, so I went with him.” He breathed out a sigh. “And I fainted.”

Peter’s lips pulled up into a smile. “I have absolutely no problem believing you.” He started to work on the lines for real this time. “Did Scott end up getting a tattoo?” 

“Yeah. And it healed like ten minutes later.”

As expected. “That’s unfortunate, however hilarious.”

Stiles huffed. “What wasn’t hilarious was Derek’s solution to the problem.”

“Oh Christ, Scott didn’t actually go through with that, did he?” Peter asked, looking up. He vividly remembered when Derek was sixteen and Talia had taken a torch to his back to bring out the ink. 

“He did. I helped hold him down.” Stiles shuddered at the memory, and Peter moved the needle away. “It’s a testament to my strength that I didn’t faint then too when Derek pulled out that blow torch.”

“That sounds horrific,” Peter said, continuing to work on the outline. “So how is my favorite nephew?” he asked as he started to work on the fox’s body. “In fact, how is Beacon Hills since I left? Any supernatural events I should know about?”

“Do you actually care?”

“Not really,” Peter replied, playing at nonchalance to uphold his reputation as a callous bastard more than anything. One of his worries was that he’d never know if Derek got mauled to death by a weretiger or eaten by an ogre, that the last of his family would be truly gone. He was secretly relieved that he was still judging with those ridiculous eyebrows of his. “I just want to keep you talking so you’ll focus on something other than the pain.”

“Oh, copy,” Stiles replied, before he cleared his throat. “Well, we faced a few baddies since you left, like a coven of roaming vampires, some fae that set up their mound in the middle of the preserve, and, oh, zombies. Yeah, that was fun.” One person had never sounded so sarcastic. “My favorite was definitely the alpha pack.”

Peter lifted his head. “Alpha pack?” That couldn’t possibly be what it sounded like.

“Yeah, a pack made up entirely of alphas.” 

Or maybe it could. Peter’s brow furrowed as he tried to process it, but his brain was just rejecting the concept. “How does that even work? The dynamic is completely off.”

“I don’t know, man. It was just a group of alphas that had murdered their packs and emissaries and came together under this dude named Deucalion.” 

“That’s a name I recognize,” Peter said, his brows lifting up as he filled in a thick black line. 

“He was very dramatic. You two would have gotten along,” Stiles went on with a short laugh.

“Rude,” Peter replied airily. 

“No really, he called himself _Death, Destroyer of Worlds_ and _Demon Wolf._ ”

That pulled a laugh out of Peter. “Sounds like he’s a fan of the Bhagavad Gita.”

“Or J. Robert Oppenheimer,” Stiles added with a nod. 

“Only a true narcissist would compare themselves to a nuclear blast.” Peter was almost impressed.

“It wasn’t funny at the time though. The alphas captured Boyd and Erica, and we barely got them back alive. We even saved Derek’s little sister, which we had no idea they had until we opened the vault. I say ‘we’, but they left me behind since I’m human and squishy.”

Peter barely heard that last sentence, his mind latching onto something else. “Cora’s alive?” he asked with a hollow, disbelieving voice. He’d mourned her death, along with Talia, his brother-in-law, his parents, a few cousins… and Laura. Then he’d drank wolfsbane laced bourbon until it didn’t hurt anymore. It was as healthy a coping mechanism as he was capable of.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, unaware of Peter’s expression because he had his arm over his eyes. “She was in Brazil or some shit. I have no idea. She’s not very forthcoming. She’s just like Derek.” 

Cora used to be an absolute sweetheart, not withdrawn and broken like Derek. But then before the fire, Derek had been bright and vibrant. And Peter didn’t used to be a hollowed out husk of a man. Peter didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“Most of the alphas left after a big fight on the night of the lunar eclipse,” Stiles went on, before he lifted his head. “Oh, guess who’s an alpha now?” He grinned, not giving Peter a chance to say a word before he went on. “My man, Scotty.”

Peter had to shut off the gun and sit back to process that. Scott, a killer? “Whose power did he take? Deucalion’s?”

Stiles had the proudest smile on his face as he replied, “No one’s. He’s a _true alpha_.”

Peter dragged in a breath and let the corners of his lips draw up. “Of course.” He lifted his tattoo gun and continued filling in the broad strokes of black. He was nearly finished with the outline.

“Yeah, so the pack has two alphas, and it kind of works? It certainly functions a lot better than it used to. Everyone’s doing good. Scott and Allison celebrated their three year anniversary not too long ago. Lydia’s at MIT. And apparently she’s a banshee? We’re pretty sure that’s your fault.”

With a sniff, Peter glanced up at him. “I knew she was immune for a reason. The Bite must have unlocked her abilities.” He looked back down. “You all should be thanking me.”

“Oh, shut your mouth,” Stiles told him with exasperation, and Peter just smiled. 

After finishing off the last of the black, Peter sat back and looked at the tattoo. “Looks good so far,” he said, before he wiped the tiny beads of blood away. “The color’s next. Do you need to take a break?”

Stiles lifted up on his elbow, looking at the fox as Peter changed his equipment to the multiple needles for color and shading. There wasn't much to it yet, just a flat outline, but soon it would come to life with the bright pigments Peter was going to add.

"No, I'm good," Stiles said, settling back down and pulling his arm up over his head.

Peter started to fill out the tattoo with washes of orange and red, bringing dimension and vibrancy to the design. Stiles was fine for a little while, continuing to chatter about his friends and a time they'd had to chase a wendigo out of town. But then he went silent, and Peter looked up to find his face screwed up in pain.

"You alright?" Peter asked, pulling the gun away from Stiles’s skin.

Stiles let out a harsh breath through his nose. "Yeah," he said, the word punched from his lungs.

"Do you need to stop?"

"Can we?" Stiles almost whined. "Just for a minute. Coloring is a lot more painful than the outlining." He dragged in a view harsh breaths and peaked at Peter. "I must be your worst client."

"Hardly," Peter replied as he sat back and laid the tattoo gun on the table. "You aren't screaming like you're getting murdered. You haven't even passed out."

"Have people passed out on you before?"

"A few. Sometimes a client gets so overloaded with pain that they just black out. It's from a drop in blood pressure." Stiles was gazing at him curiously, so he elaborated. "About two years ago, a man came into the shop. He was huge, probably at least 6'4", muscle upon muscle. He tells me wants to get his first tattoo and hands me a pretty standard, symmetrical tribal design. I ask him where he wants it, and he takes off his hat and runs his hand over his bald head."

The horror that crossed Stiles's face brought a smile to Peter's lips.

"Yeah, other than your eyelids, the scalp is the most painful place to get tattoo. There's no fat or muscle for cushion, just bone." He shook his head, recalling his efforts to talk the client out of that placement, but he would not be deterred, saying he could take it. So Peter had just given up, figuring that the man would suffer the consequences of his arrogance. 

“He was fine through the outline. Even though he was wincing, he didn’t move or make a sound. But then I started filling in the couple dozen interlocking lines with straight black. Four hours in and I’m about halfway done, and suddenly he stops making noise and cursing. So I look at his face. His eyes are rolled back in his head and his arms are shaking. Needless to say, I didn’t keep working on him.”

“Was he okay?” Stiles asked, looking genuinely concerned. 

Peter didn’t understand sympathy for people that weren’t in any way part of your own life.

“He came to after about ten minutes,” Peter replied with a smirk. “I gave him some orange juice and Reese’s, and he was fine.”

A grin pulled at Stiles’s lips. “Was that your lunch or something?”

“No, I keep extra around just for that kind of situation,” Peter said, pointing over Stiles’s head at the mini fridge tucked into the back corner with the Tupperware container of candy on top.

Stiles craned his head back to look, stretching out his neck in a long line that Peter took a moment to perversely appreciate. He was a werewolf, after all. “Huh, that’s considerate of you,” Stiles said like he didn’t trust it at all, and Peter liked him more for it.

“What can I say? I’m a nice guy,” Peter said with a winning smile, and Stiles just stared at him in a way that made it evident he wasn’t buying it for a second. “How are you feeling?” he asked, poking Stiles in the side to get him back on task.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles replied, looking down like he’d forgotten what they were doing. “I’m good. I’m ready for you to finish.” He settled back and put his arm up again.

“Excellent,” Peter said, picking up the tattoo gun again, dipping it in his cup of water and turning it on to loosen and drop the dried ink. He gathered some red onto the needles and went back to work.

Stiles fell silent again, breathing loudly through his nose. His arm jiggled around a bit before he dropped it off the table all together. He flexed his fingers out then pulled them into a tight fist, his knuckles going white, before he released. He did this a few times like he was compressing an invisible stress ball.

Peter watched this for a few seconds before he switched his gun to the other hand and grabbed onto Stiles’s wrist, pulling his hand over to set it on his knee. “Squeeze as hard as you want,” he told him, and Stiles gave him wide eyes before he nodded and let his head fall back.

Feeling Stiles’s fingers dig into his thigh while he was working on the final stretch of the tattoo wasn’t actually as distracting as it could have been. It was rhythmic, almost like a massage. What did sidetrack him was Stiles’s ragged breathing and the way he kept licking his lips. That was probably his _getting fucked_ face, and wasn’t that a pretty thought?

Not much later, Peter sat back and admired his work. “Done,” he announced, setting down the machine gun and picking up the spray bottle of watered down Tincture of Green Soap. He sprayed it generously across the tattoo.

Stiles jerked in surprise, before he laughed. “Cold!” 

Peter chuckled as he wiped off Stiles’s tattoo, getting the blood and extra ink. “Go take a look,” he said, turned toward his table so he could start breaking down his station. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Stiles hop down off the table and jog over to the mirror, lifting his arm over his head.

“Jesus Christ, Peter,” Stiles said, turning and beaming at him. “It’s fucking awesome!”

Warmth bloomed through Peter’s chest, a feeling he always had when a client liked his original work. It was a good feeling. “I’m glad you like it,” he told, being one hundred percent honest for once. Then he beckoned Stiles forward with his fingers. “Let me bandage it for you.” 

As Peter was wrapping up the tattoo, he recited the care instructions. Don’t soak the tattoo. Wash it two or three times a day with mild antibacterial soap. Don’t scratch the tattoo. Slap it if it itches. Don’t pull off the scab that will form around the third or fourth day. Try to keep the tattoo completely covered with Aquaphor at all times. Peter went ahead and gave him a tube of Aquaphor to get him started.

Stiles took it and put it in his bag, before he grabbed his shirt and gingerly pulled it on. “So why don’t you have any tattoos?” he asked as he dug through his bag.

“I have an aversion to fire,” Peter answered, tugging off his gloves and tossing them.

“What about piercings?”

Peter was a bit suspicious of Stiles’s curiosity, but then he was suspicious of everything. “I have one,” he said cryptically.

“Where?” 

A slow smile spread across Peter’s lips. “Take a guess.”

Stiles blinked those amber eyes at him, before they slowly dropped and landed on Peter’s crotch. “ _Oh._ ”

Peter’s smile took on a predatory gleam as Stiles’s face and ears darkened to red. “You’re fun,” he crooned.

Clearing his throat loudly, Stiles pulled out a thick wad of cash. “H-how much do I owe you?” he asked, meeting Peter’s gaze enough though he was beyond embarrassed.

Peter decided he liked Stiles, so he gave him a discount. 

After handing over the money, including a hearty tip, Stiles shouldered his bag and headed for the door. He stopped after pushing it open and looked back over his shoulder, smiling sweetly. “Thanks again,” he said, giving a nod, before he walked out.

“So long, Stiles,” Peter said to the empty shop. He was pretty sure that was the last time he’d ever see that boy.

He was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles's tattoo looks like [this.](http://i.imgur.com/tuAMReY.jpg)
> 
> Next up: Peter has a very special book that Stiles is interested in.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr.](http://thesushiowl.tumblr.com/) :D
> 
> EDIT: I may have not have been as clear as I intended when I had Stiles explain what canon is compliant. More or less, the events up to season 3A all happened, with the exception that Julia/Jennifer was successfully killed by Kali, so she wasn't going around and sacrificing people. That means Stiles's friend, Heather, is alive, and you can guess what that means. As I said in the chapter, Erica and Boyd are fine. There was no Nogitsune, as Stiles, Scott and Allison did not need to be temporarily put to death, leaving them vulnerable. Nothing happened under the Nemeton, so it is still inert. This means Allison is still happily alive. (I'm in deep denial.) The Yukimuras never moved to Beacon Hills. Malia does not exist, because her entire character is sexist and inconsistently written. And I didn't want to add unnecessary drama with Peter finding out he's a father. Kate is still dead, because fuck Kate. Fucking pedo rapist.
> 
> If you have any questions, shoot me a comment!


	2. Chapter 2

If Peter had to pick a favorite kind of tattoo, he would go with sleeves. It was beyond fascinating to watch someone’s arm slowly become something else entirely. Peter specialized in bright colors, so most of his sleeves could be seen from down the street. He had down jungle scenes full of animals, plenty of dragons and koi, a sleeve completely of fruit, lots of tribal and more.

The sleeve he was working on today was Alice in Wonderland themed sleeve on a young woman. She had come to him a week before to share her ideas, expressing an interest in getting it done watercolor style, which Peter was pleased about because that was his specialty. Today day she’d waltzed in right at open and said she wanted to do as much of it as possible that day.

At one in the morning, Peter was still going and his client was sitting like a rock. She was a bubbly, five foot nothing college student that had talked non-stop for about six hours before she just let her head fall back as she went into a kind of meditative state. Peter kept listening to her slow, steady heartbeat, impressed. He wanted more clients like this. There was nothing more annoying than trying to pack ink into skin that keeps flinching.

After nine hours of doing the same tattoo, Peter was about to go cross-eyed. He was going to see this tattoo in his dreams. And his ass was definitely numb. But he was nearly done with the session, so he had to just keep focusing and not let anything distract him.

So, of course, the shop door opened, that damn bell jingling and pulling him out of his concentration. He blinked as he sat back, feeling agitation well in the back of his throat. Who the hell would come in a tattoo shop an hour before it closed?

Peter looked over and sighed, because of course it was Stiles.

“Peteeeeer!” Stiles whined, stumbling to the side a bit as he stood there.

“Oh good God,” Peter said, before he stood up. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he told his client, and she nodded, looking totally zen. As he moved toward the front of the shop, the smell of alcohol assaulted his nose, and he made a face. “Well, you smell like the floor of a brewery. What do you want, Stiles?”

Stiles was red in the face, his eyes glazed and barely focused. “I want it to say _Scott and Allison Forever_ across my chest,” he said, drawing a line with his finger under his collarbones. “With flowers and hearts and shit.”

Peter let his brow arch high. “You don’t want that.”

“Yeah, I doooo,” Stiles insisted, wobbling forward and grabbing Peter’s shoulder. “They just got engaged, and I’m sooo happy for them! I want them to know that they’re my favorite ever. It's a free country!”

Peter was contemplating strangling Stiles, because the boy was breathing right in his face, and his breath was _rank_. But Peter had turned in a new leaf since his resurrection and was trying not to kill people even when they deserved it. It would have been difficult to get away with it anyway, especially with a witness.

Stiles swayed again, staggering a few steps to the right before he caught himself, and Peter realized that this ignoramus was not going to leave. “Alright, fine,” Peter said, and Stiles blinking huge eyes at him. “But I’m working on something right now.” He none too gently led Stiles over to the couch for waiting customers and pushed him down onto it, and Stiles crumpled onto his side. “Wait there.” He could boot him out when the shop was closed, and Stiles would have no choice but to go home and sleep off his stupidity.

“This is soft,” Stiles warbled with a giggle, and Peter rolled his eyes, refusing to find that cute.

When he got back to his station and client, he pulled off his gloves because he has beer sweat on them and donned a new pair. He picked up his tattoo gun again and tried to get back into the zone, but it was difficult when Stiles was groaning pathetically every minute or so. 

“If you vomit in my shop, I will end you,” Peter said, speaking loud enough for Stiles to hear.

His client let out a little giggle. “A friend of yours?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

“More of an irritating acquaintance,” Peter replied, shaking his head.

After another thirty minutes, Peter set the tattoo gun down again and flexed his hand. “Well, that’s all we have time for,” he said as he squirted the tattoo with green soap and wiped it off. He’d gotten a lot done, a bit more than two-thirds of the whole thing. He just needed to complete the image high on her wrist and the back of her hand.

The client sat up and looked at her arm, turning it this way and that as a grin spread across her face. “It looks great so far. When can I come back and get the rest done?” 

“It’s a good idea to wait about a month so the skin is healed,” Peter said as he started to spread Aquaphor up and down her arm.

“Works for me,” his client said, waiting for Peter to bandage her arm before she hopped up. They set a date for the next session in Peter’s phone before she left.

Peter broke down his station, not looking forward to dealing with Stiles’s alcohol sodden ass. If Stiles fought him on being kicked out of the shop, Peter was going to push him in front of a car. That could be called an accident.

He got up and went to the front, rounding the counter and getting ready to boot Stiles to the curb. But what he found was not a belligerent college student wanting a tattoo he'd regret, but a peacefully sleeping one. He sighed as he looked down at him, wondering what he did to deserve this burden. It wasn’t like he’d done anything too awful in this life.

“Stiles,” Peter said loudly, giving the boy’s shoulder a shake, but Stiles just mumbled something and fell right back into deep slumber. Peter rolled his eyes and figured that he would just have to get him to his dorm somehow. He couldn’t leave him at the shop. He was bound to destroy things like an unattended puppy. And he couldn’t just drop him on the curb; he’d get eaten by the homeless.

An exploration of Stiles’s wallet did not turn up the address to his dorm, so Peter figured he only had one option. He was going to take Stiles home. After some deliberation, he decided to pick Stiles up in a bridal carry instead of any other carry. If he’d tossed him over his shoulder, the jostling of his stomach would have probably caused him to sleep vomit. Peter was not having that. These were new pants.

It was a colorful endeavor full of muffled cursing carrying Stiles out and locking the door behind him. The walk to the apartment was uneventful, given the wee hour of the morning, and Peter was thankful. He would have gotten many stares toting an unconscious teenager. The absurdity of the situation sank in as Peter was riding up the elevator with a cheerful tune playing and Stiles snuffling against his neck.

Getting into his apartment required another juggling act, and once he was inside he unceremoniously dumped Stiles on his couch. He pulled the throw across the back of the couch over the boy's prone body, dismissing the fact it did a piss poor job of covering his long limbs. He was too tired to care. He left Stiles there, ventured into his room and went to bed.

* * *

It was about ten in the morning when Peter cracked his eyes open, squinting at the light coming in through a break in the curtains. With much mental complaining, he pushed himself up, shed his sleep clothes and went to take a shower. After that, he stood in front of his closet naked for a while, trying to pick which set of a v-neck and tight jeans he wanted to wear today.

Stiles was still out when Peter entered the living room, so he decided to shut the door of his bedroom extra hard. He pretended not to be deeply amused when Stiles jack-knifed up and nearly fell off the couch.

“Whozzit?” Stiles asked, looking around and blinking blearily.

“You're alive,” Peter said, and Stiles’s gaze snapped toward him so fast it probably hurt. “I was half sure you were going to choke on your own vomit while you were asleep.”

Stiles just squinted at his surroundings. “Where am I?”

“My place,” Peter replied, starting to cross the room toward the kitchen. “You passed out at the parlor, and I couldn’t leave you there. I wasn’t about to leave you in the middle of the quad at your university.”

“Oh,” Stiles replied, before his brow furrowed. "Wait, why was I at your shop?" 

"You don't remember getting Scott and Allison written in flowery script across your chest?" Peter asked, playing at innocent even though he was a jerk that took pleasure in the way Stiles’s eyes went huge in terror.

"What!" Stiles squawked, wrenching the collar of his shirt forward and looking down at his chest. "You didn't--!"

Peter gave a high laugh. "No, I didn't, but that is what you wanted. I wasn't about contribute to that level of stupidity."

Stiles looked too relieved to be mad about Peter messing with him. He dropped his collar and started regarding the room. “There aren’t nearly enough human skulls and vats of blood.”

“What kind of Bram Stoker creature of the night do you think I am? That level of macabre would clash with the furniture. Besides, you haven’t seen the bedroom. My bedding is made out of skin,” Peter replied promptly, flashing Stiles a grin when he snorted. “Eggs?” He walked into the kitchen without waiting for an answer, because if Stiles was in his home, then he was going to eat the breakfast Peter made, dammit.

Stiles needed plenty of cysteine, so Peter made him a generous helping of scrambled eggs. He grabbed one plate in his hand and laid the other over his forearm so he could grab a large glass of water for Stiles. (Unfortunately he had no electrolyte drinks.) When he walked back out into the living room, he stopped and couldn’t help but glare.

In the short time he’d taken to make breakfast, Stiles had apparently gone snooping and found one of his most prized possessions. In a chest near one of his bookcases, he had plans to keep priceless books that were centuries old. He’d had a large collection of them before the fire, and he was slowly working on rebuilding that. So far he only had one tome to his name, and it had taken him years to get a hold of. It was from the early 18th century and had cost him an arm and leg. Stiles had it spread across his lap like he had any right at all.

“No, by all means, go through my things,” Peter deadpanned as he set the plates of eggs on the coffee table, before he crossed his arms.

Stiles didn’t even look up at him. “The book is fucking awesome,” he breathed out, sounding wonderstruck. “It’s filled with spells or some shit. This one’s about warding your house against unwanted visitors. It looks so much more effective than just a circle of mountain ash.”

That shocked Peter into silence, his eyes widening as he stared at Stiles in disbelief.

He was quiet so long or his gaze was so heavy that Stiles finally looked up. “What?”

“You can read that?” Peter asked, brows almost against his hairline.

“Yeah?” Stiles replied, flicking his eyes around a moment before they landed on Peter again. “Can’t you?

Shaking his head, Peter moved closer and looked down at the extremely old but still vibrant characters spanning the pages. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “It’s written in Younger Futhark.” That got him a blank look. “Latinised Dalecarlian runes to be specific.”

“Whaaat?” Stiles asked, looking back down at the book.

“There are plenty of experts that know the language and dialect, but none of them were able to decipher that writing. It just looked like gibberish to them.” He remembered hearing this story from the book’s previous owner, and he’d dismissed it because he wanted the book. But one detail stood out in his mind. “The runes keep changing.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Stiles asked, still staring down at the pages of the book. “It looks like English. The syntax is dated, but it’s perfectly legible.”

“I don’t make an effort to weave lies before I've had breakfast,” Peter told him, not exactly surprised that Stiles didn’t believe him given his track record with deception. He sat down next to Stiles and gave him a very serious look. “The book was written by a Pennsylvanian witch back when the US was still only colonies. It’s safe to assume that she enchanted it so that only her kin could read it.”

“What are you saying?” Stiles asked softly, dragging his hand across the page.

Peter watched the runes tremble in the wake of Stiles’s fingers. “I’m saying it’s my guess that only people with magic in their blood can understand it.” Stiles turned those almond shaped brown eyes up, gazing at Peter like his whole world was shifting. “You’re a wizard, Stiles.” Sometimes Peter had no impulse control.

Stiles was quiet for a heartbeat or two, before laughter burst out of him, a loud, surprised sound that deteriorated into a giggle fit as Stiles fell to the side and held his face, shaking with it. “Oh-oh my g-god, you did not j-just say that,” he squeaked through his fingers.

Peter smiled down at him. “One of the first things I did when I came back to life was catch up on Harry Potter,” he admitted, completely unashamed. He leaned forward and picked up one of the plates of eggs. “Now eat your breakfast.”

Still snickering, Stiles sat up and took the plate. “Thanks,” he said, with this sweet smile on his face, taking the fork in hand.

“No problem,” Peter told him, feeling warm, and they started to eat in companionable silence.

After they ate, Stiles went back to reading the tome, and Peter grabbed his laptop before moving to the armchair. He had some time to kill before he needed to get ready for work, so he messed around online for a while. He ended up looking at tattoo machines on Amazon. There was a new Tony Urbanek model that caught his eye, but did he need it? He had twelve machines already. But he wanted it. His finger hovered over the Add to Cart button as he wrestled with himself.

What ended up stopping him was Stiles, who stood up. “I have a quiz in half an hour,” he said, looking sad as he held the book to his chest. “Can I borrow this?”

Peter shut his laptop. “No. It’s invaluable and one of a kind,” he told him. “I’m not letting you get Starbucks or college cafeteria food on it.”

Stiles put on a face like he’d been told that he couldn’t go to Disneyland for his birthday and Christmas was canceled. 

Sighing deeply and wondering how he came to have to deal with this, Peter stood up and delicately removed the book from Stiles’s hands. “You can come back and read it whenever you want,” he said, accepting the fact he would never be able to get rid of Stiles now. Surprisingly it wasn’t difficult to come to terms with that.

Happiness bloomed across Stiles’s face, lighting up his skin and bringing a pleased flush to his cheeks. “Really?”

“I suppose.”

“Thanks, Peter,” Stiles said, biting his bottom lip as his smile threatened to break his face in half.

As Stiles was heading out the door, they discussed their mutual schedules. Stiles usually had morning classes, but he could come to the parlor after that. Peter agreed to take the book to the shop and let Stiles study it when he was working. And Stiles could come over to the apartment on Mondays, but Peter was going to sleep all day and ignore him. Stiles was just fine with that.

Once Stiles was gone, Peter sighed and looked down at the tome in his hands. “What have I gotten myself into?"

* * *

When Stiles waltzed into the parlor the next day, Peter threw something at him. Stiles flailed as it hit him in the chest, unprepared, and the object fell to the ground with a _clink._ He bent over and picked up, straightening and turning it over in his hand.

“A key?” he asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

“It’s to my apartment,” Peter informed him, and Stiles blinked wide eyes at him. “I’m not going to wake up on Monday mornings just to let you in and then go back to sleep." He said it so casually, as if he wasn't inviting Stiles into his space while he was most vulnerable. Of course, Stiles was about as threatening as a kitten in the newborn fuzzy jellybean stage.

"Oh," Stiles said, holding out the word. "Cool."

Peter watched him run the key through his fingers, thumbing the teeth. Those hands should not have been so mesmerizing. He cleared his throat. "I put the book over there for you," he said, turning and pointing to a desk that was built into the wall. There were two desks in the shop, and that was the disused one.

"Oh, awesome," Stiles said, walking around the counter and toward that desk as he pulled his backpack off his shoulders. "I could hardly sleep last night, I was so excited."

“I’m sure your classes were lots of fun,” Peter remarked lightly as he turned back to his phone.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Peter looked over his shoulder and found Stiles staring at him curiously. “You can ask, but I won’t guarantee an answer,” he replied, preparing for a person probing question.

“How did you get into tattooing?” 

Oh, well that was benign. “I was always interested in the craft, but I didn’t start working in a shop until I was your age and in my first year of college,” Peter started.

“Where did you go to college?” Stiles asked, tilting his head like an inquisitive puppy.

“Stanford, like you,” Peter replied, and Stiles blinked with a little ‘oh!’ “At first, I was the shop toadie, my only job being cleaning, meal runs and making ice packs. On the one year anniversary, my mentor gave me my first tattoo machine.” He nodded toward a plaque on the wall where he’d mounted that machine. “After that, I used the money from tattooing to put myself through school.”

“Neat,” Stiles said, and he sounded honest, not like he was humoring Peter. “So you do tattoos and piercings. Have you ever tried scarification?”

Peter shook his head. “Not interested.”

“Really?” Stiles asked, incredulous. “It seems like it’d be right up your alley.”

“That’s the thing. It is.” Peter licked his lips as Stiles pulled a confused face. “I’m very sensitive to the smell of blood. I’m fine with ink tainted blood; it’s not appealing. The bleeding from a piercing is minimal too. But I don’t think I could keep my urges in check if I was cutting into someone.” He sighed and kept Stiles’s gaze. “I would probably tear them apart.”

At first Stiles stared at him with his eyes wide and a bit scared, and Peter didn’t blame him. But then Stiles’s face softened into something Peter couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t pity or anything that would make Peter want to boot Stiles to the curb. It did make him uncomfortable though, so he decided to just turn around and pretend that Stiles wasn’t there.

It wasn’t that difficult, because Stiles was a more or less silent worker. Peter just sketched on a thigh piece, ignoring him for a while. Then, because he couldn’t help it, he kept glancing back at Stiles. He saw his lips moving, like he was mumbling, and Peter stretched out his hearing. But he couldn’t understand a word that was falling from Stiles lips; he was speaking a language that was probably more magic than anything. Peter stopped listening when his ears started to ring.

It was half past seven that evening when Peter looked up from his drawing, his stomach clenching in hunger. He set down his pencil and glanced over at Stiles, finding him still deeply immersed in his reading. Peter turned to the cabinet behind the counter and pulled out a few delivery menus, flipping through them before he found the one he was looking for. He had a craving.

He dropped the Akashi Asian Fusion Cuisine menu on top of the magical tome, and Stiles jerked in surprise. “Pick something you want to eat,” Peter said, smirking a little when Stiles gave him big doe eyes.

“What time is it?” Stiles asked, grabbing his phone. “Oh, holy shit, okay.” He grabbed the menu and started looking over it. “What are you having?”

“Sushi,” Peter said simply. He had it at least once a week, sometimes more.

“Ooh, sushi. I haven’t had that in ages,” Stiles said, humming as he looked at his choices. “Uh, how about the Philly roll? Oh, and the California roll?”

“Is that all?” Peter asked, a smiling pulling at his lips.

“Um, can I get like three egg rolls? With sweet and sour sauce. That sounds awesome.”

“Sure,” Peter said, taking the menu back and moving back to the counter. He put the menu back in the cabinet and dialed the number to the restaurant by heart. They knew him by his number and voice, and they called him Mr Peter. He gave them his credit card information and hung up.

“How much do I owe you?” Stiles asked from his desk.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter told him. It wasn’t like he was hard up for cash. “You can get it some other time.”

“Oh.” Stiles turned back to the book and mumbled, “Now I wish I wasn’t such a glutton.” 

Peter snorted.

When the food arrived, Stiles crowded up next to Peter, eager. Peter laughed as he handed over Stiles’s portion of the food. “You’d think you hadn’t eaten in days,” Peter said, shoving the egg rolls and sweet and sour sauce at him.

“Can’t help it. I’m a growing boy,” Stiles said, grinning. His eyes dropped down to Peter’s nigiri. “What’s that?”

“Unagi,” Peter replied.

Stiles lifted a brow. “Yeah, I have no idea what that is.”

“Barbecue eel.”

The terrified disgust that crossed Stiles’s features made Peter laugh. “That can’t possibly taste good,” Stiles said vehemently.

“It’s delicious. Here, try it,” Peter said, taking the container and removing the lid, before he put it under Stiles’s nose.

Stiles wiggled away with a hiss. “I’ll stick with food I can pronounce, thanks.” He went back towards his desk, setting down his sushi containers. He stood there for a second before slowly looking over his shoulder at Peter. “Are there chopsticks?” he asked, looking sheepish.

Peter snorted and threw a pair at him.

* * *

The next time they got sushi, a week later, Stiles eyed the unagi critically. “Is it raw?”

“No.”

“What’s it barbecued in? I imagine it’s not Sweet Baby Ray’s.” 

Peter snorted as he broke his chopsticks apart. “It’s tare sauce. Think of it as a thicker, sweeter soy sauce.” 

“Huh,” Stiles said, before he headed to the desk. He had remembered the chopsticks this time, but he’d forgotten something else. “Oh, speaking of soy sauce, is there some?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, getting up and going over to his little fridge. He pulled out a bowl filled with soy sauce packets and brought it over to Stiles. 

Stiles gave it a look before he took a few. “There have to be like forty say sauce thingies in there. Are you a condiment hoarder?”

“Shut up,” Peter said, smiling. “They always send so many soy sauce packets, and it’s wasteful to just throw them away.”

“How environmentally friendly of you,” Stiles replied.

“I live very green,” Peter replied with a roll of his eyes. He returned the soy sauce packets to the fridge before going back to the counter. He pulled off the lid to his nigiri and turned to look at Stiles. “Sure you don’t want to try some?” 

“Noooo,” Stiles said, looking away from Peter like he was going to pretend he wasn’t there.

* * *

The next time they got sushi, Peter was determined to change Stiles’s perspective on life.

"Come on," Peter sang, as he chased Stiles with the unagi. "You'll like it."

Stiles fake gagged, backing up against the desk and leaning backwards over it in his effort to put some distance between himself and the container. "You can't possibly know that. I may hate it."

"That's another thing you can't know."

"I may have an allergic reaction," Stiles said, wrinkling his nose.

"You eat raw salmon all the time. You'd know if you were allergic to fish."

Stiles just made a disgusted noise, flicking his eyes between the nigiri and Peter’s face.

So Peter changed tactics. "I'll give you a free piercing if you just try one piece." Everyone was susceptible to bribery. 

Immediately Stiles looked interested. He looked down at the nigiri again. "Really?" he asked, definitely considering it though still suspicious. "Anywhere I want?"

"Anywhere you want," Peter replied with an innocent smile.

Licking his lips, Stiles lifted his eyes to Peter’s face, before grabbed a piece of unagi quickly like he was afraid he was going to chicken out if he didn't get it over and done with. He kept Peter’s gaze locked as he shoved the piece into his mouth, defiant to the end. His face was screwed up like he was expecting it to be the worst taste in the world, but as he chewed his features smoothed out into pleasant surprise.

Peter grinned. He loved being right.

"Holy shit, that’s good!" Stiles remarked with a smile, before he reached for another piece.

"Hey now," Peter said, pulling the container away and smacking Stiles’s hand. "Get your own, you leech."

"Aww, not cool," Stiles replied with a pout.

Peter didn't find that adorable, really, he swore.

* * *

The next day, Stiles wanted to get sushi again, and Peter felt smug. They ordered four containers of the same nigiri and divided them up.

"I know what kind of piercing I want," Stiles said, cheek bulging with eel.

"And what is that?" Peter asked after chewing and swallowing, because he had manners.

"Tragus," Stiles replied, tapping his ear under his industrial.

"That's easy enough," Peter replied, figuring it wouldn't be the last piercing he gave Stiles. He'd probably end up wanting several lobe holes, a cartilage ladder, a snug and so on to go with the industrial and tragus. Stiles was going to be so affronted the first time he set off a metal detector.

After they were finished eating, Peter ordered Stiles over to the padded table and went to wash his hands. He watched Stiles lie down, grinning even though he was leaking the scent of anxiety. That was okay, though. It took a long relationship with body modification to stop being nervous. He moved over to Stiles as he pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves.

"I have a question,” Stiles said as Peter was cleaning his ear.

“What else is new?” 

Stiles stuck his tongue out, and Peter couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nyeh. What’s the process like for stretching earlobes?”

“Ah,” Peter said as he tossed the alcohol wipe. “Well, you start with a certain sized hole, usually 20g, and you gradually insert a larger gauge. 18g, 16g, 14g, and so on, usually every four to six weeks, or whenever the stretching stops hurting.”

“Jesus, that’s a long, involved process,” was Stiles’s opinion.

“There is a shortcut, but it’s not advisable,” Peter went on, and Stiles blinked at him curiously. “Dermal punching.”

Stiles shuddered. “That sound awful, and I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s usually for punching a hole in cartilage,” Peter explained, running his gloved finger under the shell of Stiles’s ear, smiling when he shuddered again for a different reason. “But some people use it to get immediately to the size hole they want in their lobes. It’s a bad idea because there’s not enough skin to stretch further, and you can’t take the jewelry out and have your ears slowly shrink back down. It’s also lazy.”

“Huh,” Stiles said, regarding the ceiling. “Have you done any kind of dermal punching?” 

“No,” Peter replied, picking up a sealed 16g needle and unwrapping it. “I was going to, but when I was watching an instructional videos, there just too much blood. It’s not something that I’ve ever been asked for either.” 

“Good to know,” Stiles said, his eyes flicking over to look at the needle. He licked his lips before he turned his gaze away.

Peter had Stiles take in a deep breath and let it out again before he punctured his tragus, and Stiles only made a little whimpering sound. It only took him a moment to push the captive ring through the hole and secure the ball. He cleaned the well of Stiles’s ear of blood before he pulled off his gloves. “All done,” he said, picking up the mirror as Stiles sat up. 

“Awesome,” Stiles breathed out as he checked his reflection, a grin lighting up his face. “It looks great.” he turned his eyes to Peter. “Same care instructions, right?”

“Right,” Peter said, nodding. “I’ll give you another can of H2Ocean too.” 

“Cool,” Stiles said, still smiling wide enough to hurt his face.

They went back to their respective work. Peter had a foot piece to design, and the client had given him nearly all of the creative control. The only things she for sure wanted were anatomically correct bones and hibiscus flowers. Peter was not looking forward to tattooing those tiny toes, but he would make it work.

After a couple hours of staring at the same design, Peter needed a break, because all he was seeing were flaws and his eraser was a sad little nub. He got up, turning away from the drawing and going over to his small fridge. He pulled out a Tupperware container. He pulled off the lid as he walked back to the counter.

Stiles looked over when he heard the pop of the top. “What’s that?” he asked, tapping his pen against his chin.

“Strawberries,” Peter replied simply as he pulled one plump red fruit out by the leafy end and bit into it. Sour sweetness exploded across his tastebuds. 

“I never would have thought you were a fruit person,” Stiles said, huffing through his nose.

Because he was unable to help himself, Peter replied with, “Strawberries look like raw flesh,” and grinned.

Stiles sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

Peter finished the strawberry he was holding and dropped the end with the leaves in the trash. “I’ve always loved strawberries. My mother used to grow them in her garden, and I helped her pick them every summer.” It was one of the memories that was still vivid in his burned out brain. He couldn’t remember his mother’s face, and he had no pictures to remind him, but he could remember her hands, the way she broke apart difficult soil with her claws and the gentle way she treated budding flowers.

“What was her name?” Stiles asked softly, and Peter looked up, pulled from his thoughts.

“Ophelia,” Peter answered, turning his gaze down to the strawberries. He was going to say more, but the door to the shop opened with a tinkle of the bell. It was probably for the best.

* * *

It was Monday evening, and Peter was still in his sleep clothes: a threadbare, soft grey tee that the graphic had long since worn off of and a pair of black sweats. He didn’t see much of a point in changing into presentable clothing when he wasn't going to leave the apartment. And Stiles didn't seem to care one way or another about how he was dressed. He just kept his nose buried in the book.

They were sitting on the couch, Peter watching an X-Files marathon and Stiles muttering quietly next to him as he studied the text of the book. Peter used to find it annoying that Stiles couldn't study with his mouth closed, but now it was almost a comforting background noise. It was nice to know that he was there.

Peter was deeply focused on the show when all of the sudden Stiles jerked upright and startled him. Peter watched in confusion as Stiles set aside the book and leaned forward to start knocking everything off the coffee table. It wasn't much, just a magazine and some coasters. Peter grabbed his drink so it didn't go flying too.

"What's your damage?" Peter asked, almost cradling his drink against his chest. Why was Stiles acting like a cat left unattended?

Stiles didn't answer, just went to his knees between the couch and coffee table. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, his heart rating jumping.

“Stiles?” Peter tried, his brows coming together.

“Shh,” Stiles hushed softly, opening his eyes. “Just watch.” He lifted his hand, hovering it over the table, before he let out one last shaky breath and pressed the tip of his index finger against the varnished wood. Immediately blackness bubbled out from his fingers, spreading over the table like black ink through water. It crept down the legs until the table was completely covered. 

Peter’s eyes were wide as he stared at the table. It wasn’t just black like a layer of paint, it was absolute dark, like the abyss of a pupil or black hole. It swallowed the light and cast no shadow. Peter was afraid that if he touch it, he would fall in. 

Stiles didn’t share his terror. He let out a loud squeal and jumped up, grinning. “I did it!” he shouted, thrusting his fists into the air. “I did it! I did it! I did it!” he sang as he started to dance around the room, pumping his hips like a go go boy.

It was almost entrancing. Peter didn’t know Stiles could move that way. But he shook his head and looked down at the table. “Now it doesn’t match,” he found himself saying.

Immediately all of the joy left Stiles’s body, and he gave Peter a sad look of disappointment, before his features hardened. He stomped over to the table and smacked his hands down onto it, the force of the impact reverberating through the room as the blackness cracked and slid off the table like dust, disintegrating as it touched the floor. Soon there was no black left, just the table.

“Shit,” Peter breathed out, clutching his drink a little harder.

Stiles straightened up and put his hands on his hips, his brows pulled into a frown. “Can’t you be happy for me?” he asked, sounding genuinely offended now. “I’m learning magic! Real magic.”

“I am happy for you,” Peter replied instantly, the words falling out of his mouth without consulting his brain. But it was true, he found it was the truth. He was proud of Stiles for endeavoring to come into his full potential. “I’m just an asshole. You know that.”

Stiles stared at him a long moment, before the veneer of his agitation cracked and showed a smile underneath. “Yeah, I know.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets, dropping his gaze and going coy. “Are you really happy for me?” he asked, tilting his gaze up to Peter’s face.

“Yes,” Peter told him, leaning forward and grabbing a discarded coaster to put on the coffee table and set his drink on top of it. “It just confirms the thought I had when I first met you that you are special.” He offered him a small smile.

Stiles’s plush pink lips parted like he hadn’t expected to hear that, before a grin split his face. “Oh, well, wow, okay,” Stiles babbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you don’t mind me casting experimental spells on your furniture?”

“If you turn my TV into a toad while I’m watching it, I will probably hurt you,” Peter told him with a growing smirk.

Not intimidated in the slightest, Stiles let out a giggle. “Noted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this faster than I thought I would. :D Hopefully I can keep that up.
> 
> I planned on making this story pretty short, but I'm over 12k words in and only on the third page of an eleven page outline. I need to stop adding shit. I have a problem.
> 
> Next up: Stiles and Peter go to a karaoke bar.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr.](http://thesushiowl.tumblr.com/) :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one in which there is a lot of flirting.

It was almost ten at night, and Peter was going stir crazy. The shop had been empty all day, (but for him and Stiles,) and Peter had long ago given up on trying to beat an impossible level on Candy Crush. He sighed loudly, ready to stick his pencil in his eye.

"What's wrong with you?" Stiles asked from behind him. "You keep sighing. It's distracting."

Peter let out a soft grumble of a growl. "Bored," he admitted, before he looked over his shoulder at Stiles, finding him with his head down over the book. "I've been sitting on my ass all day."

The corner of Stiles’s mouth lifted, though he did not lift his eyes from the pages. "What about that back piece you're supposed to be drawing?"

Peter glanced over to where he’d laid his sketchpad on the cabinet. "I finished it, more or less. I need the client to approve it before I get started on the colors."

"Poor baby," Stiles said.

Peter’s gaze snapped over to him, finding a teasing smile on those pink lips. He just glared half heartedly in return.

"So, you don't have anything to do?" Stiles asked, and Peter shook his head. Stiles hummed, before grabbing his bag and starting to dig through it. He pulled out a purple rectangular object and got up, walking over to offer it to Peter.

"What’s this?" Peter asked, taking it and turning it over a couple times before he pulled the hinged top back.

"It's my 3DS. It'll keep you amused for hours."

Peter stared at the two screens and multiple buttons a moment before he lifted his brow at Stiles. "I'm not twelve."

"Oh, too old for gaming?" Stiles asked with such a shit eating grin that Peter wanted to claw his face off. "I forgot handhelds aren't targeted towards the geriatric generation. It might make your arthritis flare up."

Peter turned his nose up to that, swiveling the stool to put his back to Stiles and pointedly ignoring the chuckling behind him. He located the power button on the 3DS and stared at the top screen as it played an intro to the game. "So this is Pokémon," he said once the cinematic was over. "I've always been curious about the craze."

"It's animals beating each other to death," Stiles said. "Should be right up your alley."

Peter chose the female character because he liked the look of her more than the boy. A few minutes later he asked, "And how old is the character you're playing as?"

"Uh... ten?"

"And they are leaving home to capture every tiny creature that crosses their path?" Peter deadpanned, hoping Stiles understood the absurdity of that concept.

But Stiles didn’t seem to care. "They're not all tiny, but yeah."

"How many Pokémon are there?" Peter asked as he had his character's friends address her as 'my liege.'

"Uuuuuh," Stiles tried, before there was the sound of him shuffling then the tapping of fingers against a phone screen. "Over 700," he finally answered.

"Fucking Christ," Peter couldn’t help but exclaim.

Stiles laughed, high and bright. "Yeah, I clocked 100+ hours on that game, and I still don't have them all."

"I have a feeling I'm going to detest you for this," Peter said as he ran in circles in tall grass.

"Probably," Stiles replied mildly.

Peter ended up borrowing the game.

* * *

By the next day, Peter had played far too much Pokémon. He’d barely put the game down but to sleep. He’d nearly burned his breakfast that morning because he was too concerned with his second gym battle. He knew he should probably mix up his team a little, but he’d grown too attached to the very first Pokémon he’d caught. He’d given them names and everything.

He was sitting at the counter with the game in his hands when Stiles walked into the parlor. Peter didn’t even look up, because he could tell who it was by his scent and heartbeat. “Good afternoon, Stiles,” he said, before he frowned as his Pikachu critically struck something he was trying to catch it and caused it to faint. 

“Do you like men?” Stiles asked, and Peter looked up to find him on the other side of the counter, intently staring.

Peter blinked slowly. “Hello, Peter, how was your day? It was fine, Stiles, how was yours? Eh, not bad,” he said flatly.

Stiles’s eyes narrowed a little. “Just answer the question.” Apparently he wasn’t in the mood to play.

With a short sigh through his nose, Peter set down the 3DS. “Yes, I like men.”

“So you’re gay?” Stiles asked, his eyes going soft as his head tilted.

“No.”

“But…?” 

“I like women too.”

Stiles blinked at him, and it was a rare thing when Peter questioned Stiles’s comprehension skills, because he was smart, but now was one of those times. “Bisexuality,” Peter stated with jazz hands. “It’s a thing that exists!”

Stiles let out an affronted snort. “I knew that,” he said, walking around the counter to his work space.

Peter tracked Stiles with his eyes until he was seated, then he picked up the game again. But the peace didn’t last for long, because Peter could feel the hairs on the back of his neck lifting. He slowly looked over his shoulder and found Stiles gazing at him like he was trying to burn holes through his clothes with his eyes. “What?” Peter asked gruffly.

“You’re not going to ask me if I like dudes?” Stiles asked very carefully.

“I don’t have to ask,” Peter said as he couldn’t help the wolfish smile that spread across his lips. He received a blink in return. “You think I can’t feel the way you stare at my ass?” 

It was a gamble really, making such an assumption, but he was proven right in the way Stiles’s eyes widened and his face turned red all the way to the tips of his ears. He turned back to the book quickly, looking determined to put this conversation well and truly behind him. 

Peter chuckled and turned on the stool, going back to his game.

* * *

A few days later, which was how long it took for Stiles’s embarrassment to fade, Stiles came into the shop while he was on his phone, and Peter looked up at him. “It’s not my fault they put a baby in my cake,” he was saying, giving Peter a little wave as he walked past him. “You know I have strong teeth.” He seemed oblivious to the confusion that was filling Peter and didn’t notice his stare. “Oh shut up. I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay? Cool. Bye.” He turned off his phone and dropped it on the desk before sitting down. Then, he glanced over at Peter and realized he was being gawked at. “What?”

“You have to explain this baby in a cake thing,” Peter said slowly.

“Oh!” Stiles exclaimed with a breathless laugh. “Right, okay. Well, every time Mardi Gras rolls around, Scott reminds me of the time in high school where we had a Mardi Gras party with a king cake.”

“Ohhh,” Peter said, smiling in amusement, because he had a feeling he knew where this was going.

“Yeah,” Stiles said with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. “Nobody told me there was a plastic baby somewhere in the cake, so when I got my slice, I just started to chow down.” He took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “And I bit baby Jesus in half.”

Peter couldn’t help his laughter, a bright, rich thing that warmed him from the inside. “That’s beautiful,” he said with a shake of his head.

Stiles bit his lip and looked down, looking delectably sweet. 

It was _almost_ enough to distract Peter from a task of his. “Oh,” he said, tearing his eyes away from that beautiful mouth. “Here.” He grabbed Stiles’s 3DS and held it out to him.

“Did you get tired of electric mice and fire ponies?” Stiles asked as he got up and moved over to collect the game system.

The corner of Peter’s lips pulled up. “No, I bought my own,” he said as he picked up an aqua blue 3DS and showed it to Stiles. “I still have your cartridge though.”

Stiles was grinning like he was _proud_. “That’s fine. I’ve played it enough.” He turned and headed back to the desk. “Next I should get you into Animal Crossing. You’d love that.”

Though he had no idea what Animal Crossing was, Peter was sure that if it was as addictive as Pokémon, he’d regret ever picking it up. He snorted and turned toward the front of the shop. “Don’t tempt me.”

They fell into a comfortable quiet after that, the only sounds being the turning of pages and the tapping of a stylus. Peter felt comfortable with Stiles at his back after three months of near constant contact. He didn’t even tense up anymore when Stiles moved.

“Hey, Peter?” Stiles asked after a while.

“Yes?” Peter replied, concentrating on beating things to death for the EXP.

“Do you regret what you did in Beacon Hills?”

Peter paused and looked over his shoulder, finding Stiles giving him a deep look. He turned halfway on the stool, tilting his head. “Specifically…?”

“Killing all those people,” Stiles said carefully and without judgment.

Peter figured this would come up eventually. “No,” he said with firm honesty. “I was avenging my family.” Even if he had been a creature of rage and vengeance at the time, one-minded in his duty, he did not feel guilt for those that fell to his claws.

“What about those guys in the woods?” Stiles went on. “The ones that were messing with me and Scott?”

Peter barely remembered them, just the smell of Jack Daniels and their screams as they burned. “I was just protecting what is--was mine.” 

Stiles tilted his head a little, his brows coming together. “And Laura?” he asked gently.

Even though he didn’t want to, Peter dropped his gaze, finally feeling shame. “That, I deeply regret,” he admitted with a deep sigh. “Had I been in a sane state of mind, it wouldn’t have happened.”

He thought about weaving a tale about one poor omega that had been burned beyond recognition and left alone in a coma ward. He had been trapped in his own mind, losing bits and pieces of his sanity each day. Or how his mind, his very essence, had wanted--needed to shift every time he felt the moonlight through the window, but his body just couldn’t. His wolf had been left to howl sorrowfully in his mind until it quieted to nothing. Then he’d snapped.

But he didn’t say any of that, because it was a long time ago, another life, and he didn’t want Stiles to look at him with a piteous expression.

They were quiet for a while, and Peter turned his ear to Stiles’s heartbeat, looking for fear, but it was steady and slow. 

“I’m not sorry, y’know,” Stiles spoke up, and Peter lifted his eyes. Stiles’s face was neutral. “For helping kill you.”

Smirking, Peter rolled his eyes to show it wasn’t a big deal. “I’d think less of you if you were.”

Peter hadn’t thought about Stiles throwing a molotov cocktail at him in a long time. He had no anger left for the boy. Privately he was thankful for his death and resurrection. He’d returned to life an entirely different man with a clear mind. He’d been slowly putting himself back together like a puzzle, piece by piece.

He had a feeling that Stiles was helping assemble him back into a whole creature worthy of friendship and love. But he didn’t say so.

* * *

It was a Monday, and Peter was up before five in the afternoon. Ugh. He would much rather be sleeping. But instead he was gathering all his dirty clothes in a basket, ready to head down to the basement where the washers and dryers were. As he walked out into the living room with the basket balanced on his hip, the door to his apartment unlocked with a _snick_ , and in walked Stiles.

Stiles stopped when he saw him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Astrophysics,” Peter replied with a perfectly straight face. “What does it look like? I’m doing laundry.” He started for the door. 

“I never imagined you doing laundry,” Stiles said in an adorably astonished way. 

Peter snorted, a smile playing over his lips. “Well, seeing as I am a creature that wears clothing, I would have to, wouldn’t I?”

“I just kind of thought you bought new clothes when yours get dirty.”

That pulled a bark of a laugh from Peter’s mouth. “Novel idea,” he said as he pulled the door open. “But completely impractical.” He walked out the door and started down the hall.

“Wait!” Stiles called after him, shutting the door and jogging up next to Peter. “You’re going like that? You’re not wearing a shirt… or shoes!” 

It was true; all Peter had on was a pair of sweats that had holes in the knees. “All my shirts are dirty, and I don’t need shoes to go to the basement.”

“You must set all the ladies in the building aflutter with that body of yours,” Stiles remarked, and it sounded offhanded.

But Peter latched onto it, an evil grin blooming across his face. “And what about my body would do that?” he asked lightly.

Stiles gave him a wide-eyed, terrified animal look. “Uh,” he tried, before he tore his gaze away and started to wring his hands, his face going pink. “You-you know, with your--um--perfect werewolf--uh--physique and stuff.” 

“Perfect, hm?” Peter asked as he hit the button to the elevator and watched Stiles fidget.

“God, don’t make me talk right now,” Stiles said in a rush.

Peter snorted. “You brought it up.” He stepped into the elevator with Stiles following right behind him. They rode in silence a few moments, both staring ahead. Peter could smell the nervousness and embarrassment rolling off of Stiles. “I think you’re handsome too,” he told him.

Stiles looked over, and Peter watched him through the corner of his eye. “Yeah?” he breathed out airily. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, and he meant it.

Biting his lip in that painfully attractive way, Stiles let out a giggle as his scent went sweet like candy. “Cool.”

The elevator doors opened, and they walked to the laundry room together.

* * *

On Saturday, it was well into the night, and the parlor had been empty all day. There had been a call from someone wanting to make an appointment for the next Saturday, but that was it. Peter had been playing on his 3DS since he opened the shop, only stopping to eat fajitas--Stiles’s choice--for dinner. 

“Hey,” Stiles called from behind him.

“Hm?” Peter replied, distracted.

“Let’s go out.”

Peter didn’t even look up from his game. “I’m working.”

Stiles let out a sigh of a long-sufferer. “You’re playing Pokémon.”

“Maybe,” Peter admitted, flicking his eyes up to the door and back down. “There could be a walk-in any minute.”

“Come on, Peter,” Stiles said, and there was the sound of his chair being pushed back. Peter didn’t have to look up to know that Stiles was stepping into his space. “Let’s go to a bar or a club.” 

Peter had to look at Stiles when the boy grabbed his knees and turned him on the stool before stepping close so his hips were pressed against the insides of Peter’s thighs. Peter got a lungful of his scent, spicy and enticing. They’d barely touched since Peter had given Stiles a tattoo, and certainly not like this. Of course, Stiles knew exactly what he was doing. Peter could see it on his face. 

“I’ll let you buy me drinks,” Stiles went on, gripping Peter’s thighs. “You can live vicariously through me.”

Peter would rather bend Stiles over the counter and bite marks into his creamy skin, but he refrained. This thing between them was tentative, made up mostly of flirty glances and teasing each other. This was as bold as Stiles had ever gotten, but that was because he wanted something. He had somehow learned how to play Peter in the five months they’d been spending time together.

Peter tried to sound put upon, but what he had in answer ended up coming out as a croak, “Fine.” He cleared his throat. _Dammit._

Stiles grinned like the little shit he was.

After Peter closed up the shop, they set out to walk a few blocks into the nightlife district. They walked past a few bars and one or two clubs that Stiles didn’t seem interested in, like he was searching for the perfect place. Peter just trailed along with him, figuring that he’d be fine with whatever Stiles picked. But then Stiles halted in front of a building and drew in a large gasp, before he turned to Peter, grinning like a loon. Peter looked up at the building and found he was wrong.

“I’m not doing karaoke, Stiles,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Aww, come on. You know you want to.” Stiles leaned over, almost pressing his cheek into Peter’s shoulder.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.” Peter was not moving on this.

Stiles stepped back and evaluated him a moment, before he nodded. “Okay, Peter, I get it,” he said easily, shrugging. “You’re ashamed of your singing voice. It’s perfectly reasonable to be scared.”

While he was well aware that it was a blatant ploy, Peter couldn’t help the indignation that boiled up inside of him. He had an _excellent_ singing voice! With a sniff, he lifted his chin and marched into the Blue Moon karaoke bar, a snickering Stiles on his heels.

They were led to a room with a long, U-shaped sectional couch, a large TV screen, speakers and a set of microphones. Stiles giddily started looking through the list of songs available, and Peter went to get a drink for Stiles like he wanted. He ended up getting a pitcher of beer with a single cup, pretending he was going to drink it by himself and not let his underage comrade have any. When he got back to the room, Stiles was clutching a microphone tight and smiling like the cat who got the cream. 

“What?” Peter asked as he set the beer down and sat on one of the couches.

“I found the perfect song,” Stiles said in a ridiculous squeak, before he pressed a button.

When the beat started, he began to dance, rolling his body like a wave. “I just found out that I’m fucking with a bad dog,” he sang, and Peter immediately slapped a hand over his eyes. “But the beast in me, she knows how to train a bad dog. Woof! Like a bad dog. Sit! And be a good dog, or I’mma put you down--Bang! Bang!--like a bad dog.”

Peter honestly couldn’t help his smile as he leaned back, throwing his arms over the back of the couch as Stiles swayed his narrow hips from side to side. This was precious… and a bit hot.

“Ooooouah! I’m breathin’ on your skin,” Stiles continued to sing. “Ooooouah! Oh, oh, oh! Ooooouah! You feel my closin’ in. Ooooouah! Oh, oh, oh!” He pointed at Peter as he pumped his hips. “You’re just an animal that I caught. You know I’m yours, so rip my clothes off. And just like oooh, oh! And then we oooh, oh!” He crooked his finger at Peter. “Just come inside my cage, you bad dog!”

Peter laid his cheek against his arm as he watched Stiles continue to sing and dance, his eyes zeroing in when Stiles turned and shook his ass. He was going to end up pouncing Stiles in a minute if he didn’t control himself.

He didn’t want to ruin this.

When Stiles was done, Peter applauded him with a smile, and Stiles made a grand bow, sweeping his arm out, before he headed right for him. He handed over the microphone then pounced on the beer, pouring himself a glass that he started to chug.

Peter didn’t bother telling him to go easy. Stiles was a hilarious drunk. He started looking through the list of songs, and he found quite a few songs he liked to listen to, but none that he wanted to sing. When Stiles started to sing the Jeopardy theme, Peter growled at him over his shoulder and flipped through the list faster. Finally he found something and was pleased. 

He lifted the mic and started to sing. “Oh mama, I’m in fear for me life from the long arm of the law.” He smiled as Stiles let out a squeal of delight. “Lawman has put an end to my runnin’, and I’m so far from my home. Oh mama, I can hear you a-cryin’. You’re so scared and all alone. Hangman is comin’ down from the gallows, and I don’t have very long.”

“Yeah!” Stiles shouted right as the music started.

“The jig it up, the news it out. They finally found me,” Peter continued to sing. “The renegade who had it made, retrieved for a bounty. Never more to go astray. This will be the end today of a wanted man.”

Peter had forgotten what it felt like to sing your heart out. Even at home, he listened to music at a respectable level and only ever barely moved his lips along with the lyrics. In that moment, he was thankful that Stiles had conned him into this. And when he was done with the song, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

Stiles leapt up, clapping loudly. “I take back what I said about your singing voice,” he said, his face a bit flushed, probably from the beer he was pounding.

“Good,” Peter said smugly, lifting his chin.

Stiles just laughed, before he moved over to grab another mic. “But that reminds me of another song that we have to sing together,” he said, grabbing the list and flipping through it.

“Is that so?” Peter asked.

“Yeah.” Stiles kept searching, before he let out an ‘aha!’ when he found it and showed Peter. “Do you know it?”

Peter glanced at the list, before he snorted. “Everyone knows that song, Stiles.”

“As they should.”

As the lyrics appeared on the screen, Peter and Stiles lifted their microphones, gazes locked. “Carry on my wayward son,” they sang, their voices shifting to harmonize. “There’ll be peace when you are done.” They gravitated toward each other. “Lay your weary head to rest.” Their arms went around one another’s waists, sharing body heat. “Don’t you cry no more.”

When they finally left the bar, it’s because the joint was closing and they were being pushed out the door. Peter had to reach out and catch Stiles when he stumbled, beer logged after drinking two pitchers by himself. “Can you walk?” Peter asked him.

“Sure,” Stiles mumbled, before he pressed his face into Peter’s neck and sighed out a warm breath of air against his skin.

Peter didn’t shiver because of that. He didn’t. There was a draft. “Okay, cab it is then,” he said, more or less dragging Stiles over to the curb and looking around for transportation.

“It’s only ten blocks,” Stiles slurred, rubbing his cheek against Peter’s shoulder like a cat.

“Perhaps, but I like your face not smashed into the pavement.”

“B’aww, you like my face.” Stiles let out a wet giggle.

Sighing deeply, Peter put up his arm when he saw a cab coming. He pulled Stiles into the back seat, sitting him up next to him and putting his seatbelt on him. Stiles wobbled a bit before flopping over into Peter’s lap and starting to giggle like a spaz. The cab driver gave them judgmental looks before pulling onto the road and heading towards Peter’s apartment complex.

“Time for you to sleep,” Peter said as he pulled Stiles into the apartment and aimed him toward the couch.

“Nooo,” Stiles whined as he dug in his heels and pressed back against Peter. “Bed. Take me to bed.” He grabbed Peter’s hips and leaned his head back on his shoulder, thrusting his butt back against Peter’s crotch.

Peter thought of unsexy things.“You are barely coherent,” he told him, ready to pick him up and deposit him on the couch if he needed to. 

“I’m totes coha-cohem--what you said,” Stiles babbled, pushing away and starting to stagger towards a door.

“That’s a closet,” Peter informed him, following.

“Shut up, I knew that.” Stiles huffed and corrected his path, making it into Peter’s room and flopping onto the bed on his back. “Come on.” He beckoned Peter with his hands. “Get on me.”

“I doubt you could get it up,” Peter said, suppressing a fond smile as he pulled Stiles’s shoes off and rearranged him so he wasn’t haphazardly diagonal on the bed and was instead pointing the right direction.

Stiles’s eyes fell closed as he relaxed into the bed. “That sounds like a challenge, old man.”

"I am not old," Peter said, even though wasn’t insulted, because how could he take anything from a blasted teenager seriously? He just rolled his eyes, before he took the slack of the duvet hanging from the bed and draped it over Stiles. Then he just rolled the boy up across the bed like a crepe. 

“Whazzit?” Stiles asked, blinking his eyes and wiggling like a worm, but he was successfully trapped.

“That will keep you from getting handsy,” Peter informed him.

Stiles just started to giggle. “I'm a burrrr--eeeee--toooooh!”

“You’re ridiculous is what you are,” Peter said as he sat on the bed and reached over to pet Stiles’s hair. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles’s eyelids drooped, and he let out a dreamy sigh. “‘Kay.” He snuffled and yawned, and soon his breathing went deep and slow. 

Peter watched him awhile, tender affection curling in his chest. He adored this boy. He grazed the backs of his fingers across Stiles’s cheek, smiling as Stiles snuffled and turned his face into the pillow. Peter got up, changing into his sleep clothes and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. He laid down next to Stiles and let his kitten soft snoring lull him into sleep.

* * *

When morning rolled around, Peter was pulled from sleep gently, awareness slowly coming back to him. He opened his eyes and had to smile, because the first thing he saw was Stiles, peacefully sleeping with his face relaxed and a pool of saliva on the pillow under his mouth. He was so cute, if a bit gross.

He got out of bed, thankful for a mattress that didn't transfer motion so he wouldn't wake Stiles, and headed toward the kitchen to start on breakfast. He kept his ear trained on the bedroom, listening as he prepared omelettes with bacon and tomato. He was sliding the food onto plates when he heard a groan. He set the pan and spatula in the sink before he headed for the bedroom.

Stiles was blinking unhappily at the light when he got there, a sour expression on his face. "Hello, drunky," Peter said with a smile as he loomed over him. "How do you feel?"

Stiles let out a whine. "Like I'm gonna puke everywhere," he complained as he started to struggle against his blanket bonds.

Peter helped Stiles get free and to the bathroom, barely getting the toilet lid and seat up before Stiles went to his knees and started to vomit his brains out. Peter sat on the edge of the tub and rubbed Stiles’s back in soothing circles, wrinkling his nose at the noises of retching. "I guess you can't drink your weight in beer after all," he commented.

Letting out a sobbing sound, Stiles leaned his forehead against his bicep where it was laying on the toilet bowl. "Stop yelling," he grumbled in a muffled voice. "Just bury me here."

Peter snorted and stood up, grabbing Stiles under the arms and lifting him to his feet. "Come on," he said as he ignored the garbled protests Stiles let out and steered him toward the door. "Omelettes and Tylenol await."

Stiles grumpily mumbled all the way into the living room, where he was set on the couch. He plopped onto his side like his spine was made of gelatin, and Peter shook his head as he went into the kitchen. He retrieved the food, along with four Tylenol and a Gatorade.

There was a weird look on Stiles’s face when he was handed the pills and drink, sitting up. "Why didn't you give me this last time I was here hungover?" he asked.

"I didn't have it then," Peter admitted as he put his hands into the pockets of his flannel pajama bottoms. "But I figured it was only a matter of time before history repeated itself, and I wanted to be prepared for when it did." He shrugged like it was no big deal.

But Stiles gave him a tender smile before knocking the pills back and drinking most of the Gatorade in three large gulps.

After eating, they both settled on the couch to watch mindless TV. Stiles wasn't in the mood for studying magic when his brain was throbbing. He was cuddled up against Peter’s side under the guise of "I'm cold, and you're a personal heater. Shut your face." Peter didn't mind.

After a while of silence, Stiles shifted and cleared his throat. "So, I'm leaving tomorrow, and I won't be back until Tuesday."

"Oh?" Peter prompted. Tomorrow was Friday, so that was four days without Stiles’s company.

"I'm driving to Beacon Hills for Scott and Allison’s wedding," Stiles explained, and Peter hummed. "I don't have a date or anything, so I'm going stag." He shifted, flicking his eyes toward Peter then away again. "It'd be cool if I could take you, but I can't, so."

Peter stared at him, surprised. "It's a bit short notice," he said with a pained expression.

"I know," Stiles mumbled.

"I have three client appointments this weekend," Peter went on.

"I know," Stiles said again. "It's not a big deal, I mean... Weddings are boring anyway. I don't want to put you through that." He shifted uncomfortably as they fell into silence again.

Peter didn't know how he felt about Stiles wanting to--but also not wanting to--take him as a date to a wedding. He had no desire to return to Beacon Hills. There was far too much bad blood. And he doubted someone he bit and forced into the life of a werewolf would want him around on what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life. Allison and her father would definitely want to fill him full of wolfsbane arrows and bullets, and he did not blame them.

"Hey," Stiles spoke up, and Peter turned his attention to him. "Can I get your number?"

Peter blinked. Had they not exchanged digits yet?

Stiles must have taken his silence as hesitation, because he started to ramble. "You know, so I can text you about how crazy I'm going to go in a sleepy town? Or how much I hate wearing ties? Or how I'm going to blubber like a baby during the ceremony?"

Peter snorted, a smile curving his lips. "Sure," he said, before he got up to fetch his phone.

* * *

Peter had been prepared to feel lonely while Stiles was gone, and while the shop’s atmosphere didn’t feel as warm and it was certainly too quiet, Stiles texted him _all the time_. They were in pretty much constant communication. This was more than they talked when they were in the same room. Stiles seemed to have a comment about everything and very little impulse control when not nose deep in magic.

From Stiles: Sun 4:36pm  
_Oh fuck, I look like a flamingo trying to be a penguin in this tux._

To Stiles: Sun 4:36pm  
I bet you don’t.

From Stiles: Sun 4:38pm  
_You can’t possibly know._

To Stiles: Sun 4:39pm  
Show me then.

Peter waited, gazing at his phone as he turned back and forth on his stool behind the counter. It didn’t take long for his phone to happily _beep ba boop_ , signaling the arrival of a picture message. He opened it and hummed, pleased by what he saw. It was a shot of Stiles’s reflection, his phone held up in one hand and the other hand behind Stiles’s head in embarrassment. Stiles looked good in a tux, all sharp lines and angles. The bow tie was adorable, and the flush on those cheeks even more so. 

To Stiles: Sun 4:43pm  
I think you look strikingly handsome.

From Stiles: Sun 4:44pm  
_Really?_

To Stiles: Sun 4:44pm  
I wouldn’t lie to you.

From Stiles: Sun 4:44pm  
_:D <3_

From Stiles: Sun 4:45pm  
_I guess I have to go be a best man now. I’m going to stuff tissues into my sleeves like a grandmother. I’ll text you after._

To Stiles: Sun 4:46pm  
Have fun.

From Stiles: Sun 4:46pm  
_No promises. ;P_

The next time Peter’s phone went off, he was wrist deep in a thigh tattoo of a woman in Día de los Muertos make up, working off a picture of the client’s own abuela.Though he’d set the phone to vibrate, the buzzing was still loud in the room, even with the sound of the tattoo machine. And it didn’t stop either. Stiles sent him text after text, and Peter was half worried that his phone was going to rattle off the desk.

“I think you’re being paged,” his client said through her wincing. She hadn’t made a sound of pain yet, but it seemed hard to keep the pain off her face.

“He’ll stop in a minute,” Peter replied, only partially sure that was true. 

But his phone kept on buzzing.

“Your boyfriend is chatty,” his client said with a smile.

Peter sighed, not denying it, before he sat back. “I’m sorry, just let me--” He stood up, pulling off his gloves and walking over to the desk. He picked up his phone and opened up his messages. 

From Stiles: Sun 8:23pm  
_So the ceremony was beautiful._

From Stiles: Sun 8:25pm  
_Predictably I sobbed like a baby._

From Stiles: Sun 8:26pm  
_Allison looked beautiful, and Scott wasn’t half bad._

From Stiles: Sun 8:27pm  
_I wasn’t alone in the crying though, so I don’t feel bad._

From Stiles: Sun 8:29pm  
_Chris definitely shed a few tears when he gave Allison away._

From Stiles: Sun 8:30pm  
_Lydia was a total mess. She said she didn’t wear mascara because she knew it would run. She put it on afterward and looked fierce._

From Stiles: Sun 8:35pm  
_Hey, why aren’t you answering? Are you doing a tattoo?_

From Stiles: Sun 8:36pm  
_Peeeeteeeeer_

From Stiles: Sun 8:36pm  
_PeterPeterPeter_

From Stiles: Sun 8:37pm  
_Doesn’t matter. I’m going to keep pestering you._

From Stiles: Sun 8:37pm  
_We’re heading to the reception now. Scott said there’s a steak option and a chicken option. I’ll have to watch my dad like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t get red meat._

From Stiles: Sun 8:39pm  
_I, however, might eat two slabs of meat by myself._

From Stiles: Sun 8:40pm  
_Texting you with no answer isn’t nearly as fun as I thought it would be._

Peter sighed, smiling as he shook his head.

To Stiles: Sun 8:42pm  
I am indeed doing a tattoo. Keep texting me though. I enjoy reading it, and I’ll reply when I’m done.

From Stiles: Sun 8:43pm  
_Aww, okay! Fair warning though, I’m going to drink a lot of pink champagne and shake my groove thang on the dance floor._

To Stiles: Sun 8:44pm  
Don’t hurt yourself.

From Stiles: Sun 8:45pm  
_Please. I am as graceful as a swan._

Rolling his eyes, Peter set his phone to silent and went back to finish the tattoo he was working on. It was just after midnight when he finished putting in the tiny white highlights and declared the tattoo complete. The client abruptly hugged him, feeling emotional, and he awkwardly patted her back before offering her a smile when she drew away. After she was gone, he grabbed his phone again.

From Stiles: Sun 8:50pm  
_Omg there's a chocolate fountain. Hello new best friend._

From Stiles: Sun 8:56pm  
_The steaks are shaped like hearts._

From Stiles: Sun 8:57pm  
_I didn't know that was possible._

From Stiles: Sun 9:01pm  
_My dad tried to bargain with me so he could get a steak too. I shut him down so hard._

From Stiles: Sun 9:03pm  
_This steak tastes like happy._

From Stiles: Sun 9:04pm  
_I bet you're jealous, you carnivore._

From Stiles: Sun 9:16pm  
_Derek brought a plus one. They're sitting at the same table with my dad and Scott’s mom._

From Stiles: Sun 9:18pm  
_I'm going to go be nosy._

From Stiles: Sun 9:24pm  
_Her name is Braeden. She has claw scars on her face and neck. So obviously she's a badass._

From Stiles: Sun 9:26pm  
_I asked how they met. Derek got cagey, and she just grinned at me._

From Stiles: Sun 9:27pm  
_Mark me down as scared and a little horny!_

From Stiles: Sun 9:40pm  
_Scott and Allison are about to have their first dance as husband and wife._

From Stiles: Sun 9:40pm  
_Oh fuck, it's I Don't Want To Miss A Thing._

From Stiles: Sun 9:41pm  
_This is the song they danced to at Homecoming when they started dating._

From Stiles: Sun 9:43pm  
_Don't cry. Don't cry. Be strong, Stiles._

From Stiles: Sun 9:44pm  
_Crying a little._

From Stiles: Sun 9:46pm  
_Shit I'm out of sleeve tissues._

From Stiles: Sun 10:13pm  
_I danced with Allison. I managed not to step on her toes._

From Stiles: Sun 10:18pm  
_I danced with Scott too. We stepped all over each other._

From Stiles: Sun 10:25pm  
_Lydia and I danced. She led, and I managed not to fall down._

From Stiles: Sun 10:32pm  
_My favorite dance partner was the five year old flower girl. She's one of Allison’s friend's daughters._

From Stiles: Sun 10:34pm  
_She stood on my feet and told me to dance like Beauty and the Beast. I tried._

From Stiles: Sun 10:37pm  
_Now she's asleep on some chairs that are pushed together._

From Stiles: Sun 10:42pm  
_Caaaaaake!!_

From Stiles: Sun 11:17pm  
_I ate three pieces._

From Stiles: Sun 11:20pm  
_I think I might be drunk._

From Stiles: Sun 11:21pm  
_Definitely drunk. But I'm going home now._

From Stiles: Sun 11:43pm  
_I want to stay up to talk to you, but I am tired and full of alcohol and nums. My bed looks so inviting._

From Stiles: Sun 11:45pm  
_I'll talk to you tomorrow. Night._

Peter couldn’t help the fond smile that was plastered across his face as he finished reading the texts. He was happy that Stiles was among friends and that he'd had a good time even while flying solo. He hoped his dreams would be pleasant.

To Stiles: Mon 12:17pm  
Goodnight, Stiles.

* * *

When Peter woke up Monday afternoon, he rolled over and grabbed his phone, possibly eager for any communication from Stiles. He smiled into his pillow when he saw he had a message.

From Stiles: Mon 10:04am  
_Hey you. I know you’re not going to be awake for like eight hours, but I wanted to tell you that I’m spending the day with my dad. I’ll text you tonight._

Peter pushed himself up, heading into the living room to lounge about and do nothing productive. That meant Pokémon and Thai takeout. He was arguing with his 3DS while trying to defeat the Elite Four when his phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He reached forward and grabbed it, finding a picture message from Stiles. It was of the front of a tattoo parlor called Street Scratch Tattoo, and Stiles was leaning into the frame, grinning and giving a thumbs up. The caption on the image was _Dare me?_

Peter nearly broke his 3DS.

To Stiles: Mon 10:10pm  
Absolutely not.

From Stiles: Mon 10:11pm  
_What’s wrong? Don’t want anyone else to mark me but you?_

To Stiles: Mon 10:11pm  
Precisely.

From Stiles: Mon 10:12pm  
_That’s weirdly possessive. I didn’t know you cared that much._

To Stiles: Mon 10:13pm  
I don’t trust anyone else not to mutilate your skin.

To Stiles: Mon 10:14pm  
And I don’t want you to get a staph infection from a seedy $10 tattoo shop.

From Stiles: Mon 10:15pm  
_Aww, you sentimental marshmallow._

To Stiles: Mon 10:16pm  
Don’t call me that.

From Stiles: Mon 10:17pm  
_Okay, Squishywolf._

To Stiles: Mon 10:17pm  
Definitely don’t call me that either.

From Stiles: Mon 10:18pm  
_Would you rather be Creeperwolf like you were when I was in high school?_

To Stiles: Mon 10:18pm  
No.

From Stiles: Mon 10:20pm  
_Too bad. You get a name. I give one to all my close werewolf friends. Derek used to be Sourwolf, and now he’s Scruffywolf. Cora is Gigglewolf ever since she had a giggle fit while watching SNL and then hiccupped for two hours._

From Stiles: Mon 10:22pm  
_Boyd is Icewolf because of his job at the ice rink. Erica is Mistresswolf, because she used my computer one time and didn’t clear the search history._

From Stiles: Mon 10:23pm  
_Isaac is why-are-you-wearing-a-scarf-it’s-summer-stop-it-wolf. I’m still working on that one._

Peter couldn’t help his chuckle and grin.

To Stiles: Mon 10:24pm  
And Scott?

From Stiles: Mon 10:25pm  
_Puppybro._

To Stiles: Mon 10:25pm  
Of course.

To Stiles: Mon 10:26pm  
I’d rather you call me Handsomewolf.

From Stiles: Mon 10:27pm  
_Yeah. No. Going with Squishywolf. You’ve been overruled. The only alternative is Strawberrywolf._

To Stiles: Mon 10:28pm  
Oh goddammit.

From Stiles: Mon 10:28pm  
_:D_

* * *

When the door to the parlor opened on Tuesday afternoon, the familiar smell hit Peter first, and he was smiling before he even looked up. “Look who it is.”

“Did you miss me?” Stiles asked, grinning as he walked up to the counter, one hand held behind his back.

“I’ll miss the quiet I had while you were gone.” That was pretty much a blatant lie.

Stiles rolled his eyes, the smile never leaving his face. “Ha, you’re so funny. Here, I brought you something.” He revealed what he was hiding, a clear plastic container of chocolate covered strawberries, which he laid on the counter. “They’re from the reception. Allison said I could have the rest.”

Peter was already opening the package. “You do care,” he said as he bit into one of the morsels, not bothering to disguise his moan of pleasure.

Letting out a chuckle, Stiles leaned his hip against the counter. “So, bet you can’t guess who got engaged.”

Peter swallowed and straightened up. “I don’t know your friends nearly well enough.”

Stiles wasn’t at all deterred. “My dad and Scott’s mom! We’re going to be brothers!” The joy written across his features was bright and beautiful.

“Ah,” Peter said. “That must be have exciting for you.”

Stiles threw up his hands. “I didn’t even know they were dating!” He dropped his arms and shrugged. “I shouted incoherently at my dad for keeping it from me, before I hugged him while crying.”

“It sounds like you cried a lot while you were gone,” Peter said, smile going teasing and his brow lifting.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “Oh!” He pulled out his phone and walked around the counter to step up next to Peter. “I have pictures!”

Peter picked up another strawberry as he leaned close to look at Stiles’s phone. The pictures were pretty standard. There was one of the bride and the bridesmaids. Allison’s dress was exquisite. Then there was the groom and the groomsmen. Scott and Stiles was grinning like happy idiots. Even Derek was smiling through a full beard, scruffy wolf indeed. Stiles kept going through the pictures, and Peter choked on a strawberry when he got to a close up of Scott.

“What the fuck is that on his face?” he asked, coughing.

“A moustache.” Stiles snickered, zooming in a bit more on the atrocity. “I was surprised to see it too.”

“He looks like a 70s pornstar,” Peter stated with finality.

Blinking, Stiles pulled the phone closer to his face. “Oh my god, he does!”

They looked at each other, and in the same moment exploded into laughter. They ended up leaning against one another, arms thrown haphazardly around each other’s bodies. They were incapacitated with giggles, but they were joyous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ran a little long. I rambled. I yelled at my screen. I cried a little. But it's still good, right?
> 
> The karaoke room looks like [this.](http://s3-media1.fl.yelpcdn.com/bphoto/h2d82cLoAs5VyJsyyf6h1g/o.jpg) So blue.  
> The songs they sing are:  
> Bad Dog by Neon Hitch  
> Renegade by Styx  
> Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas
> 
> The song Scott and Allison dance to at their wedding is:  
> I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing by Aerosmith
> 
> If you've never seen Tyler Posey with a moustache, [you are missing out.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_maikd42kJK1qa5fz0o1_1280.jpg)
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr.](http://thesushiowl.tumblr.com/) :D
> 
> One chapter left!
> 
> Next up: Hey, it's Lydia. And some porn. Not at the same time. *shakes maracas*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Are you excited?

It was laundry day, and Peter was yet again up at a mostly reasonable hour. He was wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else, armed with a basket and quarters. As he was grabbing his 3DS to keep him entertained in the laundry room, there was a knock at the door. He tossed the game system in the basket and headed over to answer it.

"Stiles, you've been coming here for months, and you're going to start knocking now?" he asked, loud enough to be heard through the wood. He grabbed the knob and pulled. "Did you lose your--" He halted, eyes widening. "...key?"

"Hello, Peter," Lydia greeted, not bothering with even a fake smile. She looked him up and down and clearly wasn’t impressed.

"Hello," Peter replied slowly, unsure of what was going on here. "I thought you were in Massachusetts."

"I was," she said, continuing her blank stare. "It's summer."

"Ah." Now he remembered Stiles mentioning he was going to take summer courses. 

Lydia started toward him, and he had to force himself to move leisurely out of her way instead of scamper to the side like a startled deer. He slowly closed the door as he watched her look around. She was strikingly beautiful. Her red hair was done up in an intricate French braid, looping around the side of her head and spiraling into a delicate knot on the back. Her eye and lip make-up was dark. Her clothing was sharp, her boot tops and heels high.

But what struck him was the way she smelled: like wet cemetery grass and fresh cut flowers lain on graves. He had never been in the presence of a banshee before, at least not one with realized abilities. He didn't know what her powers were or if she planned to use them. Her posture was relaxed, her heartbeat steady, so the only thing he knew what she was not afraid of him anymore.

It was unsettling.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked when she stopped studying his home and looked at him.

"I hear you're helping Stiles learn magic," she said, sliding her hands into the pockets of her circle skirt.

"I'm not actively participating. He's doing all of the work. It's just my book." He probably said that too quickly.

One of her brows arched. "He's spending an awful lot of time with you."

"Again, my book," he said flatly.

Lydia took a step toward him, and the air in the room got heavier, thicker. "For some reason, he trusts you. But make no mistake, the rest of us don't. We're just letting him make his own mistakes."

"You make it sound like we're fucking," he replied, and he'd meant it as a joke, but it came out defensive.

She advanced on him, and he might have moved back if it were not for some invisible force closing around him like a fist, making it hard to breathe, hard to even function. She seemed to loom over him, though she was still shorter than he was, even in four inch heels. She cupped his cheek in her hand, and her skin was so cold it seemed to drew the heat from Peter’s body.

"If you hurt him," she began, her voice a near whisper, but it echoed Peter's head like a shout in a canyon. "I will scream so loud and so hard into your face that your skull will collapse. Then I will burn you to ash and spread you across the world. No amount of mind manipulation and amateur necromancy will bring you back. Do you understand me?"

Peter tried to take a few breaths, but the air around him was stifling. "Yes," he managed in a croak, wondering if she would going to make him pass out and leave him on the floor.

But she just smiled a little. "Good," she said, taking a step back, and all the air rushed back into the room. She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket as he gasped and sucked in oxygen for his burning lungs, before she held it out to him. "I tracked down some sellers of similar books like the one you have. If you want Stiles to stick around, buy him some more."

Peter took the piece of paper and looked at the three phone numbers and names written there. He wanted to say that Stiles would stick around anyway, because they were friends and slowly on the way to being something more. But what came out of his mouth was, "These books cost a fortune."

Lydia rolled her eyes high. "That's the cost of making someone happy." She started toward the door, and he stepped to the side so she could pass. "Remember," she began, opening the door and giving him a sweet smile over her shoulder. "I can bring you to nothingness." She walked out and pulled the door shut behind her with a click.

Peter stared at the door a long moment, trying to process what just happened. His first coherent thought was that his nephew and niece were lucky to have an ally like Lydia.

He looked down at the piece of paper. It was from a memo pad, pink with gradient purple flowers around the border. He went to grab his phone and dialed the first number, before he put it to his ear.

"Hello, my name is Peter Hale. I believe you might have some books I'd be interested in..."

* * *

"So when did you start tattooing?" Peter's client asked curiously as he etched ink into the skin over her ribs. It was a pair of intricately detailed koi swimming in the Pisces formation.

"When I was nineteen," Peter replied, focusing on making his lines as clean as possible.

"How long ago was that?" She shifted and touched his shoulder with her fingers.

"A while," Peter said with a smirk.

"You don't look a day over twenty-five," she told him as her thumb grazed just under the hem of his short sleeve along his bicep.

"That's sweet of you to say," he said, ignoring the touch as best he could. "But it was twenty years ago. Partially interrupted by a six year... sabbatical." 

That drew a snort from behind him, and Peter looked over to see Stiles shaking his head. "Hush, you," Peter scolded, smirking anyway.

"Sabbatical," Stiles murmured with a giggle.

Peter sighed shortly through his nose, before he turned back to tattooing. His client ran his fingertips lightly up and down his arm. It wasn't enough to break his concentration or hurt his lines, so he let it happen. When he started on the shading, her grip tightened a little on his elbow, before she dropped her hand to grasp his shirt, right over his hip. His client was quiet for a while, and Peter could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't look up.

"Do you ever get shit for not having tattoos yourself?" she asked him while he was coloring one of the koi.

"All the time," Peter replied. "I've had clients walk in, see my bare arms and walk right back out."

"That's unfortunate. You're such a great artist. Anyone would be lucky to be tattooed by you," she said, and he glanced up to find her leering at him.

"Thank you," he said, smiling in an almost lecherous way back. "And any artist would be lucky to have a canvas as wonderful as you."

She grinned at him, looking intensely pleased, and he went back to work. But almost immediately his machine halted, and he blinked at it. After a quick assessment, he found one of the contact cords had popped off, which had never happened before. He reattached it and continued his work, only to have the machine stutter to a stop again. The same cord had popped off, and when he clicked it back into place, he gave it a tug to see if it was loose. It held fine. So the third time it came off, Peter suspected an outside force was tampering with it.

Peter turned and looked at Stiles, finding him shaking with barely controlled laughter. "Stop it, you little shit," he growled at him.

"Stop what?" Stiles asked on a giggle, not turning around because his face would probably fail to belie his guilt.

"You know what," Peter said as he reattached the contact cord again.

"I have no idea to what you are referring," Stiles replied haughtily, and Peter fought not to growl. "Besides, I'm all the way over here."

Rolling his eyes, he got back to work, his client’s hand lightly touching him pretty much everywhere she could reach. Within reason, though, and Peter was thankful she didn't palm him through his jeans, because he would have had to tell her to stop, that he wasn't interested. That would an awkward conversation to have with someone you were stabbing needles into.

When the tattoo was finished and the client checked it out in the mirror, she gave a happy squeal and jumped up and down. "I love it!" she cried, bouncing over to throw her arms around Peter and squeeze.

Peter matter how many surprise hugs he received, he would always be unsure what to do. He patted her on the back and smiled at her when she drew away.

After Peter bandaged her tattoo and she'd paid, she pulled a card from her purse and handed it over. It had her name and phone number on it. "Call me sometime, will you?" she said, before she winked at him and sashayed out the door.

Peter looked down at the card. "Hm."

"She give you her number?" Stiles asked.

Peter looked over, and Stiles was approaching him. "Yes."

"Can I see?" Stiles held out his hand, and Peter passed the card over. "Huh," Stiles mused, staring at the card intently until it went up in flames, burning to black in his palm. Stiles wiped his hands together and the ash fluttered to the ground. "I learned how to make fire," he said with a proud grin.

"I can see that," Peter replied, failing to suppress a fond smile.

* * *

Full moons used to be a jovial time for Peter. He used to let his wolf come to the surface and run through the woods with family, with his sister. It was always a fun filled night of playing chase and wrestling and then a doggy pile worth of cuddling. He used to catch rabbits and tear into them, to feeling their flesh rip and their blood fill his belly. He used to fall asleep under the moon and wake up naked and covered in dirt with leaves in his hair. It was the greatest time of his life.

But now, full moons were miserable. Even with the instinctual need to change, Peter couldn't feel the warm presence of his wolf. It was just a hollow and cold compulsion that left him empty.

He had nowhere to run and no one to run with. He knew that if he went prowling around the park, he'd run into a midnight jogger or a couple trying to be romantic, and there would be bloodshed. There would be no justification in senseless slaughter. It wouldn't calm the howling anger in his heart.

So he stayed inside, spending most of the day pacing or trying to distract himself. He always left the parlor closed on full moons, far too impatient for tribal armbands and ankle butterflies. Stiles had learned quick to leave him alone. He'd come over once, and Peter had growled at him until he'd back pedaled out the door.

Peter had felt terrible about it the next day and had tried to apologize, but Stiles had just shrugged it off and said, “It’s cool. You’re not the first moon crazed wolf to nearly eat me.”

Speaking of Stiles, Peter was trying not to think about him, and he was failing. He was lying on his back in the middle of his bed, feeling full after devouring almost three pounds of raw chuck roast. Every time he tried to distract his mind with thoughts other than Stiles, it just made connections right back to him.

Food? Fruit. Bananas. Apples. Oranges. Orange was a color. Foxes were orange. Fox tattoo. Stiles.

Sports? He didn't really like sports, other than basketball. Baseball was okay if he was really bored. Stiles liked the Mets. Ugh.

Pokémon? Stiles.

With a grumble, Peter rolled over onto his stomach and just let his brain go wild, filling up with thoughts of Stiles like water pouring into a glass. It was perfectly innocent at first, alighting on the way Stiles smiled, the sound of his laugh. His eyes sparkled when he was happy, edges of his eyes and bridge if his nose wrinkling. Peter wanted to nuzzle that cute upturned nose and press his face into that neck.

Predictably, he had a throat kink. Stiles's neck was long and pale, and Peter wanted to cover it in hickeys, so that everyone would know he belonged to someone. Wanting to claim wasn't an entirely werewolf impulse. He was just possessive. But he wanted Stiles to _want_ to be claimed, to wear the marks with pride. 

But that wasn't all Peter wanted. He also often had the urge to kiss Stiles senseless. Fuck, Stiles’s lips. They were distracting. Stiles did terrible things to straws with those lips. They were plump and pink already, but Stiles had the habit of chewing them when he was studying. Often they were swollen, a bit bruised and spit slick. Peter could hardly be blamed for wanting to nibble them, to lick into that sweet mouth and count his teeth with his tongue.

Stiles would probably look amazing with those lips wrapped around a couple of Peter's fingers, sucking and hollowing his cheeks. And he would look all the more beautiful on his knees, swallowing Peter's cock down as far as he could, eyes turned up because he would want to see what his attentions would do to Peter.

He felt a stirring in his pants and grunted, reaching under himself and into his sweats to adjust himself.

Peter would undress Stiles slowly, revealing inch after inch of pale skin and pressing kisses to the moles he found. They probably dotted him everywhere, across his shoulders and between his thighs. Peter wanted to bite marks into those thighs, before sucking Stiles’s cock into his mouth. He figured Stiles would be loud and would not be able to control his body while wrapped in pleasure. He would writhe and grab onto Peter's hair.

Peter would suck him until he was begging to come, gasping out Peter's name and tugging at his hair. Then Peter would grab him under the knee and flip him over. He would take hold of his ass and spread him open before leaning in and dragging his tongue across that tight little hole.

He was fully hard now, practically humping the bed. He took himself in hand and started to stroke, breathing hotly into the covers.

He wanted to open Stiles up slowly with his fingers, one by one as he lightly grazed his prostate. He would lick and nip at his ass and lower back, and Stiles would moan, wriggle and clench down on his fingers, arching back.

_Please, fuck me!_

Peter would, sinking into him slow and moaning into the back of Stiles’s neck. It would be such a sweet, torturous slide into welcoming, wet heat. He'd grab Stiles’s hands and tangle their fingers together as he worked up to thrusting fast and hard. Stiles would be a moaning, wanton thing, and would pump his hips back in desperation.

Peter doubled up on his fists, giving him something tight to fuck into. He could pretend for now, but he knew it wouldn’t compare to the real thing.

He would press Stiles against the bed with his weight, knowing Stiles would want his cock touched too, but Peter would be determined to make him come on this alone. And it would work, because Peter was tenacious and good at aiming at the spot that made Stiles cry out. Peter would wait until he would start to shake, his breathing coming hard and fast. Then he would sink his teeth into the crook of Stiles shoulder. Stiles would shout and tremble and clench down, and the smell and feel of it would bring Peter off too.

Peter let out a groan as he came over his fingers, before he panted loudly in the quiet room. "Mm," he mumbled. "That was good." He rolled out of the wet spot, leaving that to attend to later.

* * *

It was Monday again, and Peter slept well into the afternoon, nearly into the night. When he got up, he staggered into the shower. It woke him up enough to face what was left of the day. He pulled on some lounging clothes and headed out into the living room.

Stiles was there, sitting on the couch with his socked feet braced on the edge of the coffee table and book across his lap. "Hey," he said when he looked up. "Package came for you while you were sleeping." He pointed at a box on the coffee table. "I pretended to be you and signed for it. I figured you didn't want to be woken up."

"You figured right," Peter said with a nod. He cut the tape on the box with a claw and opened it, moving the packing material out of the way to get to what was inside. "And actually, this is for you."

"Huh?" Stiles asked, lifting his head again.

In Peter’s hands were three leather bound tomes, very much like the one Stiles had spread across his lap. He walked around the coffee table to sit next to Stiles, offering him the books.

"You got more?" Stiles asked, closing the book in his lap and setting it to the side. He took the books with wide eyes.

"You've been studying the same spells for ages," Peter explained with a smug smile. "I thought it was due time for new material."

Stiles grinned at that, opening the top most book and flipping through a few pages.

Peter swallowed as he watched him. "I bought them for you," he went on, before he felt the need to clarify, "As a gift. You can take them with you instead of sticking around, if you want."

Stiles turned wide eyes on him. "...Oh." He looked down then up again. "Is it okay if I keep coming here and the parlor? I'm just so used to it. They're like my study rooms."

Managing not to smile too pathetically wide in joy, Peter nodded. "Of course."

Stiles full on grinned. "Cool."

* * *

Peter was sitting at the counter of his shop, boredly spinning his 3DS on the glass surface, when the door burst open. He looked up to find Stiles there, panting and grinning like a loon. He lifted a brow. "Did you run here?"

"Maybe," Stiles said, hurrying inside and dumping his bag on the counter, before he walked around it and into Peter's space. "I wanted to show you something." With that, he lifted his shirt and turned to show Peter the the fox on his side.

Peter looked at it. It had healed nicely. "Okay?"

"Give it a second, you impatient asshole."

Peter grunted and kept looking, and his eyes widened as the fox's ears twitched. It opened its mouth in yawn, blinking white eyes, before it shifted. It ran about in a couple circles, long bushy tail billowing out behind it like smoke, before settling back in its original position.

Peter blinked. “Holy shit,” was the best he could come up with.

“Right?” Stiles said, looking extremely proud of himself.

Lifting his hand, Peter drew the tips of his fingers down the length of the fox.

Stiles shuddered but didn’t stop him, only dropping his shirt when Peter pulled his hand back. “I found a spell about sinking energy into tattoos to make them move. I think the point is bring them to life as a protector, but I’m not that powerful yet,” Stiles rambled as he dug through his bag. “Here.” He handed Peter a folded up piece of paper. 

Peter unfolded it and lifted a brow at a collection of interlinked lines that he could hardly make heads or tails of. “And this is?”

“A sigil for increasing or focusing magical abilities,” Stiles explained, looking like an excited puppy. “I want it tattooed on me.”

“Where?” Peter asked, turning on his stool.

“Over my heart.”

“Alright.” Peter stood up and headed toward his desk to made a stencil.

“How much?” Stiles asked from behind him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter replied with a wave of his hand.

Stiles snorted. “That’s not very sound business practice.” 

Smiling, Peter shook his head. “Shut up and take off your shirt.”

Once Stiles was prepped and the station was set up, Peter dipped the lining needle in black ink. Stiles was quiet as Peter worked, chewing his bottom lip and watching through half lidded eyes. Not that Peter was looking, of course. No, he was focusing.

But it was difficult to ignore the way Stiles’s arm dropped off the table, his hand landing on Peter’s knee. It stayed there for a while, just squeezing like Stiles was in pain, before his fingers started to creep along Peter’s inner thigh. Peter disregarded it as best as he could, sure that Stiles wasn’t doing what he thought he was. But Stiles’s hand kept creeping, getting dangerously close to Peter’s dick.

Peter cleared his throat and grabbed Stiles’s hand, setting it on the table. 

Stiles let out an unhappy sound. “You let me last time.”

“Last time you needed a distraction from the needle. This time you’re two seconds from giving me a handjob.”

After a pause, Stiles said, “Is that bad?” 

Peter sighed, looking up. “If you do that, your tattoo will be even more of an indecipherable blob.”

Stiles bit his lip. “After?” 

That was tempting, very tempting, and it pained Peter to turn it down. “I have another client coming in soon.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, pushing out his bottom lip and looking dejected. “Okay.”

Peter stared at him a moment, before he set his hand on Stiles’s stomach, right beneath his navel. He smiled as stiles sucked in a sharp breath, stomach muscles contracting, before he started to run his fingers in swirling patterns up Stiles’s chest. Stiles put his head back when Peter reached his neck, letting out a shaky gasp as his throat was stroked.

Peter smirked, before he twisted Stiles’s nipple hard.

Stiles jerked like he’d been smacked. “Ow, what the fuck!”

“Pouting does not suit you,” Peter informed him with a cheeky smile.

Stiles frowned deeply, rubbing his abused nipple. “Whatever, you so want me.”

Peter didn’t agree or disagree, going back to his work.

* * *

It was once again Monday, and Peter was still very much asleep. He was having odd dreams about he didn’t even know what, but they were interrupted when a loud noise sounded in his home. He was on his feet before his eyes were even open, heart beating fast as he tried to focus. He ran out into the living room and stopped dead at what he saw. 

Stiles was lying on the floor, unmoving and _smoking_.

“Stiles!” Peter cried, lunging forward, but the moment he tried to touch him, his hand was assaulted by some kind of electricity. “Motherfuck!” he shouted, jerking back and looking at his hand. The skin was split across his palm, oozing plasma, and his arm shook from the pain. He watched his hand slowly knit itself back together, burning pain lessening until it was just a weak ache.

He looked at Stiles and watched as sparks jumped across his prone body. Peter wasn’t even sure he was breathing, but there was nothing for him to do but sit there and wait. He was not the praying sort, as be believed in no deities, but that didn’t stop him from softly chanting, “Please, please, Stiles, please,” under his breath.

Peter didn’t know how long it took, but it was too long, and Peter could feel moisture welling up in his eyes, but then Stiles’s eyes popped open and he jerked up into a sitting position. Peter jerked in surprise.

“Holy fuck!” Stiles gasped, blinking wide eyes and looked down at his hands.

“Jesus,” Peter wheezed, putting a hand over his heart. “Are you alright?” He scooted closer and gingerly touched Stiles’s shoulder, and when he wasn’t shocked he gripped it.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said breezily, waving a hand. “I guess I’m not powerful enough yet to do a disappearance spell.” He giggled like it was no big deal, before he sobered up when he got a good look at Peter’s face. “What’s up, Squishywolf?” 

Peter had only barely kept the tears back. “I thought you were dead,” he said in a soft voice, cupping Stiles’s cheek with his palm.

Stiles scooted closer, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist and leaning against his chest. “I’m okay,” he replied, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “Promise.”

“You better be, you little shit,” Peter said with no heat as he encircled Stiles’s shoulders with his arms. “I would have to hide your body and leave the state to get away from your friends and your father. Lydia would probably get to me first.”

“Most likely,” Stiles agreed, before he tilted his head up and kissed the underside of Peter’s chin.

Peter leaned his cheek against Stiles’s hair, closing his eyes and sighing in relief.

* * *

Sometimes Peter’s clients were almost completely silent, and he didn’t mind that. Such was the case with the man he was doing an inner wrist piece on. It was a few lines of script, something that didn’t take that long. Peter felt his client’s eyes on him throughout the process, but he didn’t say anything so Peter didn’t mind. After the man had his tattoo bandaged and had paid, Peter figured that would be the end of it. 

But as the man was heading out, he stopped at the door and turned, walking back over to the counter, and Peter looked up at him. “I hope you don’t find me forward,” he said, and Peter lifted his brows. “But I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime?”

Peter heard the tell tale sound of a chair squeaking across the floor behind him but didn’t look. “I actually like when people are forward, but I’m with someone at the moment.” He didn’t even have to think about his answer, even if the man was quite handsome.

The guy shrugged. “Well, alright. I guess it didn’t hurt to ask, right?” 

Peter simply smiled at him and watched him leave, before he turned on his stool to find Stiles right behind him, watching him with a pensive expression. “Can I help you?”

“Was that true?” Stiles asked. “Or was it an excuse because you just didn’t like his face?”

Snorting, Peter tilted his head. “Oh no, I very much liked his face. I imagine I would have liked the rest of him too.”

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles said flatly, “You’re so funny. I’m in stitches. Now answer the fucking question.”

Peter reached out and took Stiles’s hand, pulling him closer and running his thumb over his knuckles. “It wasn’t an excuse.”

Stiles bit his lip, looking fuckably cute, and Peter thought about pulling him down for a kiss, but then the door bell jingled and he was distracted.

* * *

Peter was in the shower, face lifted to the stream and eyes closed. The hot water was doing much to relax his muscles and chase the sleep from his body. He was thinking about what he was going to have for breakfast when the shower curtain was jerked open.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he cried, smacking back against the wall of the shower and putting his arms up in a defensive position.

“I need to talk to you!” Stiles cried, smiling way too hugely.

Peter wiped the water from his face. “Can I finish my shower first?” he asked, annoyed as he spread his hands.

Stiles blinked, before he dropped his eyes. “Yeah…”

“Stiles,” Peter growled.

“You really _are_ pierced down there,” he breathed out in awe.

Peter shifted but didn’t bother covering himself. “Stop staring at my dick and get out, you little shit,” he barked, though a little less authoritative than he’d attended. He managed not to smile though.

“Right!” Stiles drew the curtain and hurried out. 

Peter let out a deeply dramatic sigh, going back to his shower. He thought about drawing it out, about washing every inch of himself with care, but he was curious what had Stiles so eager. After washing his hair, he shut off the water, climbing out and grabbing a towel. He left his hair damp and went to put on some clothes. When he walked out into the living room and found Stiles pacing and vibrating with excess energy.

“Did you snort some Pixy Sticks or something?” Peter asked, watching him.

Stiles whirled around. “I found a way to turn you back into an alpha.”

Going perfectly still, Peter’s amusement fell off his face. “What?”

Stiles all but skipped over to him, grabbing his hands and squeezing them as he grinned. “There’s this spell,” he elaborated. “It’s used to revert the status of a werewolf into what they were before. It’s supposed to be used to turn an alpha back into a beta or an omega, but since you were an alpha before, there’s a strong possibility that it can change you back to that state.”

Peter refused to let the excitement welling in his throat show on his face. “You are aware that I’ve been in other states, yes?” he said, keeping his voice even. “Coma. _Dead_.”

Stiles started to wring Peter’s hands, anxious. “Magic is all about the intent of the user. If I want you to become an alpha again, then that’s what will happen.” He stepped closer, within kissing range. “And I want it, Peter.”

Peter dropped his eyes to Stiles’s lips, licking his own, before he looked up again. “So I won’t kill someone for it?” The opportunity hadn’t exactly presented itself to him, but he couldn’t say for certain that he wouldn’t worm his way past an alpha’s defenses and slash open their throat given the chance. At least, he would have, but now?

“That,” Stiles agreed with a half shrug and a tilt of his head. “And because you deserve what you want for once.”

That just made Peter feel all gooey and warm inside. He wasn’t used to other people caring about his desires. Still, so many things could go wrong with this endeavor. Sighing, Peter turned his wrists so he could grip Stiles’s hands. “I don’t know, Stiles.”

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Stiles told him, like he wanted to soothe his worries about possibly being put in the ground again.

But Peter shook his head. “It’s not losing my life that I’m afraid of…” He licked his lips and Stiles pressed a little closer, studying his face. “It’s losing you.”

That was it. Peter had grown so accustomed to Stiles’s presence in his life, his smile, laugh, energy and scent. He was selfish, and he wanted Stiles around forever. He would rather stay an omega for all time than make a power grab and lose everything he’d gained in the past months.

Stiles lifted his hands, and Peter let his drop, eyes fluttering closed as Stiles took his face in a gentle grasp. “I’ll be right here,” Stiles promised him, leaning their foreheads together. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Because I don’t want to lose you either.”

Peter sucked in a breath, and it felt like the first one he’d taken in years. He opened his eyes and saw Stiles gazing at him with such sincerity and knew, just _knew_ that Stiles would protect him and use his magic to give him what he wanted, what he really deserved. He would be there when it was over. And they would figure out what to do afterward. Together.

"Let's do it," Peter decided, and Stiles gave him a smile and nod.

Peter ended up on his back in the middle of the floor with Stiles leaning over his head, his hands hovering on either side of Peter's ears. Peter watched as Stiles closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, before opening his eyes again. His eyes were milky white, pupils and irises gone. Peter parted his lips in shock, but he wasn't able to say anything, because Stiles’s hands gripped Peter's head and Peter's body started to seize.

Peter couldn’t even scream as his body jerked, because his throat had closed up. He could feel his bones breaking, shifting and healing, over and over again. His claws and fangs popped out and retracted continuously, his fingers going slick with blood and his mouth filling with the metallic taste. The best he could do was swallow and whimper.

Time quickly lost meaning in Peter’s torment, so he had no idea how long it took before Stiles blinked, eyes returning to normal, and let him go. Peter flung himself up, shaky on his feet as he swallowed large gulps of air. His body felt too small, skin too tight, and there was something _big_ scratching at the walls of his mind. His muscles rippled, and he felt cold even though he was panting.

"Did it work?" Stiles asked, and Peter looked over at him.

Peter couldn’t speak, so he didn't even try. He let out a roar if a howl that made the windows shake, before he let go of the restraint he had on his form. His clothes were rendered to shreds as his body changed. His skin split, muscles bulging and bones realigning, and it didn't hurt at all. It felt like coming home. He looked over at Stiles and breathed in his scent, huffing the air, before he leapt at him, knocking him to the floor.

Stiles went down with an 'oof!' He blinked up at Peter’s looming form and lifted a hand, touching Peter’s face. "It worked."

Peter turned his head and gave Stiles’s wrist a nuzzle, before he lifted his head and looked at himself in the full length mirror against the wall. He was a huge black wolf, far larger than any full shift that Peter had ever seen. The angles of his head were sharp, muzzle long. His shoulders were broad and his back long. His tail was huge, and it wagged a bit as giddiness filled the places of Peter that were usually empty. There was something beautiful about the way Stiles’s pale hand looked against his dark fur.

He wasn't monstrous, not like his previous form, even with the brightly glowing red eyes.

He looked back down at Stiles, finding him grinning gleefully, Peter couldn't help his huff. He pulled the beast back, delighted in the knowledge that he could have this form anytime he wanted. The wolf curled up in the back of his mind, content.

That left Peter naked and on his hands and knees over Stiles, who was smiling up at him sweetly. Peter couldn’t help but give into the urge to surge down and take those lips for his own. Stiles let out a tiny noise on impact, so Peter gentled the touch, sliding their mouths together softly and licking into Stiles’s mouth. He tasted every bit as good as Peter thought he would, possibly even better.

Stiles let out a little whine as they parted. "Finally," he whispered, smiling up at Peter and wrapping his arms around his neck.

Peter agreed wholeheartedly. "I want you," he told him in a low, rumbling voice. "I've wanted you for ages." 

"Yeah," Stiles replied, fervently nodding his head. "Me too. C'mon, take me to bed."

Peter sat back and pulled Stiles up with him, smiling as he was clung to. He got to his feet and carried Stiles into the bedroom, falling with him on the the soft covers He grabbed Stiles’s shirt at the hem and nearly tore it in half as he pulled it over Stiles’s head, before tossing it away. He was already hard, rocking his hips against Stiles’s as he nipped and sucked at his neck. First thing was first, he needed to mark Stiles up. And Stiles wasn't complaining, arching up and stretching out his neck as far as possible. Peter wasn’t satisfied until he was covered from shoulder to shoulder with blotchy purple.

Peter examined his work a moment, and Stiles gazed up at him with eyes that had their pupils blown wide, barely a thin ring of amber showing. He was breathing harder, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Peter could feel Stiles’s cock against his belly, hard and wanting. Someday he was going to suck that cock until the only words Stiles could say were _Peter_ and _please!_ Later though, as he wasn’t in a patient mood at the moment.

He pulled back enough to pull Stiles’s pants and underwear off in one movement. Stiles wriggled a bit to try and reach down to get his socks off as well, so Peter did that for him too. He took in the rest of Stiles’s body, all slim lines and angular hipbones. His cock was lovely too, circumcised and curving up against his belly. Peter gave it a stroke, and Stiles let out a whine, hips jerking up. Peter smiled in a predatory fashion, before he released him and reached for the night stand. He pulled out a condom and a bottle of lube.

“We don’t need that,” Stiles said softly.

Peter looked at him, before he glanced down at the supplies. “I think you’ll find that we do,” he said slowly, mostly sure Stiles didn’t want him to go in dry. That wouldn’t be any fun for anyone.

“No, I mean the condom,” Stiles said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I know you can’t get diseases, and it’s not like I can get pregnant.” He leaned in and dragged his lips across Peter’s pec. “I want to feel you, just you. And-and I want your come in me.” He smiled slowly like the evil shit he was.

If Stiles was trying to break Peter’s brain, he was succeeding. He dropped the condom back into the drawer and pushed Stiles back down on the bed, rolling his eyes when he giggled on impact. He popped the cap of the lube, slicking up his fingers. Stiles arched up off the bed as he slid in the first finger, both of them groaning at how tight Stiles was. _Fuck,_ Peter thought as he moved his finger in and out, this was going to be heaven.

Even though he was so hard he was throbbing, Peter took the time to insert another finger and work them both, thrusting and spreading them. The noise that Stiles made when he grazed over his prostate was gorgeous. This was yet another act that he was going to torment Stiles with at a later date, maybe work him up to four fingers until he was trembling and crying out for more. 

He pulled his fingers out and took hold of Stiles’s hips, lifting him up and pushing him up further onto the bed. He knocked the pillows off, before he leaned down and took Stiles’s lips again, moving into position over him. He slid in slowly, Stiles’s muscles clenching and relaxing in rapid cycles around him. It was so good, more than good really. It was perfect.

Stiles clutched at Peter, digging his nails into his shoulders and crossing his ankles over his ass. As Peter started to move, Stiles began to let out a cacophony of moans and whines, gripping Peter hard and trying to rock his hips up with the limited leverage he had. “Fuck,” he gasped, putting his head back. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Gonna come?” Peter murmured into Stiles’s ear, grinning as Stiles whimpered. That was certainly a yes. 

Peter started to thrust faster, harder, punching louder cries out of Stiles. He growled into Stiles’s neck as the nails on his shoulder dug in more and dragged down his back, breaking skin that stung for a few moments before healing. He would have to relearn how to control his healing locally, something he used to take advantage of, that way Stiles could scratch up his back, and he would feel it for days. He wanted them both to be all marked up and to remember the cause of the small wounds every time they moved. 

Peter was starting to lose the focus of his thrusts, pleasure filling his body more rapidly than he’d anticipated, but then Stiles was writhing under him and practically shouting every time Peter’s cock dragged over his inner walls. “Come on my dick,” Peter growled into his ear, slamming his hips against Stiles’s and pulling a high cry out of him. “I want to feel it. C’mon.” 

Stiles clung to Peter and arched off the bed, screaming in a way that was going to leave him hoarse. He painted their stomachs with white as his muscles spasmed over Peter’s cock, bringing him off too with a groan. 

Every muscle in Peter’s body went loose, but he managed not to squish Stiles into the bed, instead flopping to the side with his arm over Stiles stomach, not currently giving a damn about getting sticky with come. They both laid there, trying to get their breathing back under control and letting the sweat cool on their skin. Eventually they stopped panting, and the humming in Peter’s body dulled to a quiet background noise.

“Mm,” Stiles mumbled, looking at Peter, before he slowly rolled his head toward the bathroom. “I should totally get a washcloth or somethin’,” he slurred, before he reached out a hand in that direction. “Come to me.”

“Trying to use the Force?” Peter asked with a smile.

“Maybe,” Stiles replied, before he dropped his arm. “Too far away, the Force is weak in this one at the moment.” There was a distinct possibly he was talking about his magical abilities and just couldn’t summon them in a post-coital haze.

Peter chuckled, before he made himself get up. “Lazy,” he accused, and Stiles just grunted. He went into the bathroom and fetched a cloth, wetting it. He wiped off his arm and front as he walked back out into the bedroom, coming to a halt at the side of the bed and running his eyes along Stiles’s prone form. His eyes fell to the smeared pools of come on his stomach.

“Actually,” he said, climbing onto the bed and dipping his head to run his tongue through that sticky substance, grinning to himself when Stiles jumped and whispered ‘Holy shit.’ He lapped at the come, swallowing it down until it was all gone, before he started to suck the taste from Stiles’s stomach. He left hickeys in his wake and very was satisfied by that.

Peter shifted until he could drop onto his back next to Stiles, letting the soft bed and the remaining dopamine that was soaking his brain pull him into a contented, weighted state. The wolf in his mind was practically purring, rolled over on its back and showing its belly, because both it and Peter trusted Stiles not to harm him in a vulnerable state. It had been such a long time since Peter had felt the presence of his wolf. He’d gotten so used to the emptiness that he hadn't even missed it anymore, but now that it was back, he felt whole again.

It was all because of Stiles.

Peter looked over as Stiles shifted, scooting closer to prop his cheek up on Peter’s shoulder and throw his arm and leg over him, like a lazy claim. Peter didn’t mind, just nuzzled Stiles’s hair. He smelled like sex, musk and citrus. It was a scent he wanted to bury himself in and never come out.

“That was a first for me,” Stiles said after a long while of them just basking in togetherness. 

Peter slowly opened his eyes and tilted his head to look down at him. “Ever?”

“Well, not ever,” Stiles amended. “I did it with my friend, Heather. In a wine cellar. It was cold. And over really fast.” Peter could feel the way Stiles was blushing by the way his cheek was heating up against his shoulder. “This time was the first with a dude.” He shifted and buried his face into Peter’s neck. 

Peter chuckled and shifted to wrap Stiles up in his arms. “The first of many, I hope?”

“Hell yeah,” Stiles replied without hesitation.

* * *

Peter looked up when the door to the parlor opened and Stiles meandered in. “Hey,” he said, smiling at him.

“Hey, you,” Stiles replied, walking around the counter and pressing a kiss to Peter’s cheek before he headed for the desk.

Even though this kind of greeting was standard now that they were officially together, Peter was never not going to grin at the little tingle in his cheek. “How was class?” he asked, turning on his chair to watch Stiles pull out the tome he was currently studying out of his bag.

“Blegh,” was Stiles’s answer.

“That good, hm?” Peter said with an amused smile.

“You bet,” Stiles replied, plopping down in his chair, before he looked over at Peter. “So, I had an idea for another tattoo.” There was mischief in his grin.

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Your name,” Stiles said. “On my ass. Preceded by ‘property of.’”

Peter laughed, loud, bright and happy, and Stiles grinned all the wider. “That can be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! That was fun. It was also the fastest I've ever completed a story.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr.](http://thesushiowl.tumblr.com/) :D
> 
> Hopefully I can stave off the Steter bug long enough to finish my other story, but I'm not holding my breath. xD
> 
> Edit: I added this story to a series, which I'll be updating erratically as ideas for this universe come to me.


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